


bury the dead where they're found

by rocketdocket



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Coming Out, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Gay Bar, Harry-centric, Homophobia, I promise - it deals with some dark elements but it's more a fic about hope, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retcon, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Trauma, and love and family, chosen family, i've made this sound like the most delightful fic of all time, lgbt community, more than anything else, slightly anti-Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketdocket/pseuds/rocketdocket
Summary: The war is over. Or at least, that's how it feels for everyone else. But not for Harry. He can't escape the memories and the nightmares of the war, or his guilt about those who died for him. While all he wants is to be alone, finding a family in the most unlikely of places may be just what he needs.





	bury the dead where they're found

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know how this fic happened, or why, but here we are.
> 
> I sat down to write this fic one day completely out of the blue, and four days later I was done. It took me significantly longer to edit. I could've sat for the rest of my life revising this thing, but I chose to post it instead.
> 
> Some disclaimers: I was extremely liberal with canon, and mixed some elements of the books and the films. I haven't read/watched them in a little while now, and did very little research for this fic at all (namely: re-read about 2 chapters of the books, and did some frantic googling). I chose Brighton because of my girlfriend, so some of those elements come from her (and again, some frantic googling on my part). There's a mix of American-English and British-English in here, because that's how I speak/write in real life *shrugs*. It's complicated. It's a fully self-indulgent hodge-podge of my favorite pairings and tropes, with mental health thrown in because as they say, "write what you know".
> 
> Also, I wrote the first part of this fic while manic, the second part while drunk, and the rest while sober, so do with that what you will. I would not recommend.

_The war is over._  
  
That’s what the front page of the Daily Prophet triumphantly proclaimed after the dust settled from the Battle of Hogwarts, and witches and wizards tried to pick themselves up to some level of order after the chaos, the arrests... and the deaths.  
  
_Voldemort is dead._  
  
The next headline to hit the Daily Prophet, and what was a near constant murmur and shout throughout Diagon Alley. Now that he was confirmed to be gone forever, now that his name no longer meant capture, people seemed to thrill in spitting the name out, as if they could reclaim some of the power and strength they lost during the war. As if somehow, by using his name, it erased the fact that their friends and family were gone, their livelihood destroyed, and their future crumpled and struggling to be resurrected.  
  
_The war is over. The war is over. The war is over._  
  
But to Harry, those words rang false in his ears, and felt cheap and poisonous in his veins. It wasn’t over, it would never be over. Was it over for Mrs. Weasley, as she had to look at her family and see the gaping, jagged hole in every family portrait? Was it over for George, when he couldn’t even look into a mirror without his own reflection reminded him of losing Fred, over and over again? Was it over for Teddy.... Teddy who had lost his parents, and was just like him. _Alone_. But he had a loving family to care for him. And a dark, blackened part of himself felt so spiteful and angry that Teddy could have that but he never could.  
  
The war wasn’t over. Not to him at least.  
  
The months following the Battle, he woke screaming every single night from the nightmares. Seeing his friends and family being killed right before his eyes. Seeing Voldemort’s face, his eyes. Waking in a panicked sweat thinking he was still trapped in Malfoy Manor, hearing Hermione’s screams as she was tortured. Or that he was camping still, constantly vigilant that they’d been found, and that they needed to leave again, _quick, quick!_  
  
_Hypervigilance._ That’s what that fancy muggle psychology book had called it, that Hermione had slid towards him one night, open to the page. _Post-traumatic Stress Disorder._ A mouthful to explain why he frantically formulated at least three escape routes to every room he entered, every building... and every street he walked down. He’d walk down the streets and see _their_ faces everywhere. He’d see death eaters in regular pedestrians. Or people he had lost, like ghosts before him. It left him overwhelmed and shaky, his hands trembling so severely he couldn’t even hold his wand if he needed to. Which only made the panic that much worse.

He felt like he was dying, every single day. So no, the war wasn’t over, not for him.

***

Two years after the Battle, the nightmares had mostly stopped. They were replaced with a recurring dream, or more a memory really, where he was standing at the train station again. He was dead, or halfway there, and Dumbledore was looking at him with those piercing blue eyes saying, _“Are you getting on the train?”_  
  
He always woke up, gasping, before he could answer. He wasn’t sure what answer he would give, if he could. Not anymore. He tried not to think about it outside of his room each night. He tried to pull his mind away from the relentless question confronting him again and again. _Are you getting on the train?_  
  
He had moved out of the flat he was sharing with Ron and Hermione about a year post-war. They had grown more and more increasingly concerned the longer he went unable to sleep through the night, hardly eating, the circles under his eyes so dark they looked painfully bruised. The day he left, Hermione looked at him with sorrow in her eyes, before grasping his hand to pass him a folded note. Scrawled across it, in her crisp handwriting, it had a name and address. “A Mind Healer. Please, go. Ron and I have been. It really does help.”  
  
“She’s right mate. I hate to admit it but... I’m glad Hermione dragged me along one day and shoved me through the door. Just think about it, okay?” Ron finished gruffly.  
  
“It’s our one condition for you to move out and live on your own!” Hermione desperately scrambled, despite the boxes already packed beside Harry and the security deposit he had paid on a flat in Brighton.  
  
Harry couldn’t answer her, just gave a tired half-nod to acknowledge that he had heard. Then he was vanishing his things and disapparating to his new home.  
  
It was better, in Brighton. Without the presence of the Ministry of Magic, St. Mungo’s, and Diagon Alley, he didn’t feel suffocated by the barrage of witches and wizards who rushed him on the streets and crowded him in tight spaces, all reminding him of what he had done. He felt like he could _breathe_ again, most of the time. It was much slower here, less hectic, while not being so removed from city life as to constantly remind of the final year of the war. It felt good to be so near to the sea. It felt good, to be able to take walks at night by the coast and feel the salt air on his face and a cool breeze across his skin. And he did, eventually, swallow his pride and muster up the courage to go to this Mind Healer that Hermione had given him the information for. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that it was helping him too. That’s what had made his nightmares almost disappear entirely. But that’s when these new dreams began. He wasn’t sure which one was worse anymore. Well... that wasn’t true. These new dreams didn’t wake him up screaming. Or have him running to the bathroom to throw up. They haunted him in a different way.  
  
The night it all changed was really a day like any other, until the moment he was stopped in the street by an overly-venerating wizard. He was out of practice; he hadn’t had to deal with this in so long... he felt distinctly off-kilter, as the wizard clamoured to grasp his hands, openly weeping. He was thanking Harry over and over again for ending the war, for saving _his_ life, _their_ life, _all of their lives_. As he clung onto his robes, tugging at them, sobbing and lauding him all in one breath, everyone else in the street turned to stare at them. The sun burned too hot on his skin, as if it had transformed into their own personal spotlight. Harry felt frozen, overwhelmed, and all of a sudden it wasn’t this wizard’s hands grasping at him, it was _theirs_ and he wasn’t safe, _no one was safe!_

He threw the wizard’s hands off him, even as the wizard kept trying to cling back on, reaching tirelessly to place his hands on _The Savior_. Harry finally prized the man’s hands from him, shoving the wizard’s chest so hard he tumbled backward. It was only then the man stopped weeping, sitting on the ground with a stunned look upon his face up at Harry. Harry, who no longer felt human… he felt _animal_. His eyesight had transformed– he was no longer on the street, he was on a battleground. He was a hunter, and his enemy his prey. He refused to be taken. He refused to be tortured. He refused to be killed. He spotted his exit and took it, racing down the nearest alley, up over a fence, and landing with a bang on the edge of the large dumpster on the other side as he slid down to the ground. His side would be aching, later, with a mottled bruise from where he had made impact. But he couldn’t feel it now. His body felt numb to him; he could only feel his blood racing with pure adrenaline, _you’ve got to go, go, go!_ He pulled down a rusted metal ladder to race up a fire escape. He reached the highest level, then used his hands to pull himself up onto the roof, nails digging into the crumbling brick. When the majority of his weight was lifted above the brick ledge, he rolled his body over. He lay on his back, as close as he could against the brick ledge, as he caught his breath. _Apparate. I can apparate from here._ It must’ve been his childhood as a muggle, he mused, that made his initial flight response only by muggle-means before he even considered magical ones. _I’m out of practice. I never would’ve done this during the war. I would’ve known to reach for my wand._

He felt him slowly come back to himself, still gasping for breath as he waited for his heart rate to slow down. He felt cold, _so cold_ , shivering as he always did after one of these episodes. He fumbled for his wand, as he knew the exhaustion was soon to follow as his adrenaline ebbed away. He wanted nothing more than to be home, safe, in his flat. To lock the door and retreat once more from the world. _Stupid, stupid! I never should’ve gone out today. I never should’ve left my flat._ Pulling his wand out of his robes, he inhaled sharply at the stabbing pain in his hands as he went to grip his wand. His hands were cut up and bleeding, several of his nails cracked. He started to shake harder. _I never should’ve left my flat._ With a wince he closed his right hand around his wand, then he apparated home.

He didn’t leave his apartment for three days. He didn’t turn on the lights. He locked his door, then double-checked it, then triple-checked it. He cast and then re-cast spells on all of the windows and the door to magically reinforce them against intruders. He barely got out of bed, barely ate, barely slept. The dream haunted him still, banging around in his head. On the third day, festering in his own solitude after the events on the street, the dream came to him once more. Only this time, he didn’t wake before the answer.

_Those piercing blue eyes scrutinized him from above half-moon glasses. He couldn’t tell what Dumbledore saw in him in that moment. His face was inscrutable as he surveyed Harry’s form. Was that concern, disappointment, pride, or love?_

_Harry sensed the question coming before the words had even begun to cross Dumbledore’s lips. Despite the amorphous timeline within the dreamscape, Harry still felt that time had slowed down to a near halt, as if the universe waited with bated breath for what was to come._

_Are you getting on the train?_

_Those words, those infernal words that never escaped him, that never gave him rest even in sleep. Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to drill straight into his very soul, the essence of his being. He knew what he would find there… a blackened, rotting heart, inside of a fetid and decaying corpse. To Harry, the answer came to him as easily as breathing, as laboured as his breaths had become. It felt obvious; the clearest and easiest choice he had made since before he could remember._

_Are you getting on the train?_

_Yes._

Harry woke up with a start, but he wasn’t screaming. He felt like he should be shaken by what had just happened, but for the first time in three days, or really the first time since the nightmares began, he felt calm. Resolved. Before the Battle ended, when he had faced Voldemort and died, he made a choice. He chose life. He chose to _live._ But much like the ghosts in Hogwarts, he wasn’t truly alive. He wasn’t gifted with remaining in the land of the living… he was cursed.

He remembered using the Resurrection Stone to see his parents, Sirius, and Lupin, one last time before he died. He remembered their faces, and their reassuring nods to say _It’s okay. It’s okay, to let go. Let go._ They had prepared him to die. His darkened mind whispered to him that it was just another way he had failed them, by choosing to live when they had prepared him so lovingly for death. His mother had called him _brave._ His father had said he was _proud of him_. What a disappointment he turned out to be.

But he had to go back, then. He had to go back, because Voldemort had the Elder Wand, and he wasn’t gone, not yet. Harry had to go back, to end the suffering that his very existence had inspired. When he had discussed it with Dumbledore, wherever he had been, in that half-way point between life and death, Dumbledore had told him that by returning he would be fulfilling a worthy goal of ending so much suffering for others. Decreasing loss and pain. There was something else Dumbledore had said as well. _Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living._ As Dumbledore had left, he had told him it was only a goodbye for the present. It was meant to be temporary.

He rose from his bed, and calmly put on his shoes. He tucked his wand in his pocket. With a harsh chuckle, he remembered what he had thought those three days prior, of how he always resorted to muggle methods. _It’ll be no different this time. It’s poetic, in a way. Where magic didn’t kill me, the natural world would. Just as it was supposed to, two years ago. I died, two years ago. It’s time to repay my debt._

He allowed the guilt he had been secretly harbouring to wash over him, like the sea that it was, consuming all things. The guilt that he, and he alone, had gotten to return, while there were so many others that died because of him. There were so many others that would never get to come back, while he got to wander aimlessly, living a shamble of a life and achieving nothing. His worthy goal was over. Voldemort was gone. It was time to move _On_.

He walked slowly down the streets past his flat, taking his time, absorbing the last few rays of sunlight as the sun finally sank below the horizon. He walked and walked until his feet began to ache, calm still consuming his body, even as he tried to decide where it was he was going to go. He reached a church that looked more like a magnificent cathedral to Harry’s eyes, and found himself compelled to go inside. _St. Peter’s Church_. Dim lighting glowed from the decorative light fixtures, and it was entirely empty within. He was never someone who was religious. The Dursley’s certainly weren’t, beyond the odd Easter or Christmas mass, and once magic entered his life it seemed to cast a whole new perspective on muggle religions. But he figured, just this once, if he was going to commit himself to a muggle ending, he should do it properly. Just to humour the universe, he’d say a final prayer. He sat down at one of the last pews, and bowed his head and clasped his hands, presuming that was what he was meant to do.

_Please, God._

_Let me find peace. Let me find happiness._

_Let me find life._

He was surprised that those were the words that had come to him in his final prayer. He shook his head to clear it, trying to resolve himself to his earlier conviction. Time to go. As he descended the steps and headed towards the road, more eager than ever to locate a bridge or some other equally terminal destination, that’s when he saw him.

And that’s when his life changed forever.

***

To say that Harry was surprised to see Draco Malfoy sauntering down a street at night in Brighton would be an understatement. He was so stunned he stopped mid-step towards the road. He could only attribute what he did next to that shock that forced out all other thought. He called out his name.

“Malfoy?!”

The stark blond head whipped around to locate the origin of the voice. If he was surprised to see Harry, he made little indication. His face flickered for half a second, and then a cool and collected mask slid into place.

“Oh hey, Potter. Surprised to see you out here this late. Heading out?”

“Oh.. uh… um… something like that. Where are you going?” Harry found himself jogging to reach Malfoy to walk alongside him. He could’ve sworn Malfoy had picked up his pace, hurrying along as if to get away from him.

“I’m heading down to the bars to meet up with a few friends,” Malfoy explained casually. He flicked his eyes over to Harry, considering him for a moment.

He didn’t speak, until, “You wouldn’t want to…. come with me, would you?”

Harry had no explanation as to why his next words were _yes_.

Maybe it was the words that had come to him while attempting a final prayer. Maybe it was the knowledge that it wasn’t death he craved, but _life_ , life that he hadn’t been able to find since he had died. Maybe it was some small, desperate, part of him, a light buried amidst his darkened and festering heart, that longed to get to enjoy the life he was now free to live. A life free from the fear of death, Voldemort, and the weight of the wizarding (and muggle) world on his shoulders. The life he had created, in the world that he had saved.

Whatever the reason, Malfoy quirked his lips into a small smile, then looked forward again.

“You look like shit,” he said, deadpan. Something about the abruptness and harshness of those words, after months of solitude only interrupted by overwhelming adoration from strangers, made Harry bark out a laugh. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. When was the last time he had truly spoken, to someone other than his Mind Healer? When was the last time he had laughed?

“Tactful as ever, Malfoy. Not all of us are obsessed with our hair,” he found himself responding snarkily. It was Malfoy now who barked out a laugh.

“Got to look good for a night out on the town! Can’t accomplish that with eye bags the size of which would put bezoar hearts to shame. I’m surprised you can even keep up, you look so thin,” Malfoy remarked, casting a cursory glance up and down Harry’s body, lips pursed. Harry felt himself flushing. If he didn’t know any better, Harry could’ve sworn Malfoy was _worried_ about him, beneath all the barbs.

“Look, if you’re just going to insult me all night…” Harry started to slow down.

“No! _No–_ ” Draco reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling both of them to a stop. He looked down at his hand clamped over Harry’s arm, and quickly released it. “I promise, no more slights. Let’s just have some fun, okay?” The smile Malfoy gave Harry was so stunning, so full of life, Harry realized he was walking forward again with Malfoy before he had made the conscious decision to continue. _Fun._ Harry scoffed at the word. He didn’t know what that word meant anymore. He started feeling weary.

Before he could allow that feeling to overwhelm him, to force him to open his mouth and say that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea and maybe he’d better just leave and go home, Draco had pulled them to an abrupt halt.

“We’re here!”

And here they were. Bustling nightlife surrounded them, with people dressed from tasteful to skanky, some laughing with friends while others sent smoldering looks at strangers, obviously looking to pull. _Life_. Harry couldn’t help but think that word, looking at this thriving scene of people before him, filled with joy, laughter, and smiles. Looking at them, they didn’t look marred by war and trauma. They looked… free.

Overstimulated, he knew Malfoy was prattling on about something or other but he couldn’t hear the words. He let Malfoy gently lead him into a bar and club fusion. More a bar than a club, the music was low enough you could be heard, but there was still a sizable dance floor in one corner, where people were grinding and swaying to the music.

“Come on, I think I see them,” Malfoy said, and there was that smile again. Kind and carefree. _How could he have that smile after everything?_ Malfoy was holding his hand, gently pulling Harry behind him through the light crowd. Harry’s heart was racing, and he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that it wasn’t from panic, for the first time in years. He didn’t even notice he hadn’t checked for exits.

“Hey guys!” Malfoy cheerfully called out to two people sat at one of the small booths against the right wall. Harry’s eyes widened in shock. It was Seamus. And Dean.

They seemed equally as shocked to see Harry, but at a slight shake of the head from Malfoy, they quickly recovered and switched to genuine smiles.

“Hey there, Harry. So good to see you mate! Joining us?” Seamus jovially asked.

“Must be your good influence that’s got Draco here on time, he’s _always_ late,” Dean joked, earning him a light smack on the back of the head from Malfoy. _Draco? Dean had just called Malfoy_ Draco _?_

Noticing the lost puppy look that Harry knew must’ve been all over his face, Draco quickly stepped in once again, softly suggesting to Harry that they sit down on the other side of the booth from the pair. “So what have you bastards been up to since last Friday?” Malfoy asked. _Friday. It was Friday._ Harry had lost track of time since he had moved to Brighton, living on his own. _The PTSD doesn’t help,_ Harry thought wryly.

“Well, Dean here got one of his pieces in a gallery showing. Not that he’d say anything about it, the humble little git,” Seamus ribbed, while leaning over and kissing Dean gently on the cheek. Harry didn’t think he could be any more surprised that night, but it turned out he was wrong. His eyes stayed wide this time. All three of his unlikely companions faltered, and it was once again Malfoy who swept in with the clean and graceful recovery.

“Harry, you of course know Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, boyfriends now for three years,” Malfoy introduced them like a gracious host.

“ _Three years?!_ ” That seemed to be the thing that broke Harry from his frozen silence.

Taken aback, Seamus took a second before saying, “Yeah mate, we got together right before Dean had to leave Hogwarts and go on the run. Nothing like mortal peril to get you a love confession, eh?” If any sadness entered Seamus’ face, or any haunted memories, it was shaken by Dean’s arm around Seamus’ waist, giving him a loving squeeze followed by his own kiss on the cheek.

“Disgusting, the lot of them,” Malfoy sneered, and for a second Harry was frozen again. _Did he mean… no. Malfoy was their friend. As… strange as that may seem. He obviously spends a lot of time with them. He likes them. He must be joking._

As if sensing Harry’s inner distress, Malfoy drawled out, “I joke, I joke,” waving his hand dismissively at Seamus and Dean, who are now rather passionately snogging. “Although I’ve got to say, have you got to do that here? We’ve got company, boys.”

Breaking apart, Dean retorted, “Come on Malfoy, we know you’re just jealous. Find your own boyfriend then see what you have to say about it.” Seamus stuck his tongue out at Malfoy childishly.

_Find your own boyfriend… did that mean Malfoy was also...? Surely not. No._ Glancing around, Harry began to notice his surroundings in a way he hadn’t before as they’d entered, too overcome by his own mental turmoil and the shock of his situation. Everyone in the bar and club was…. gay, gay… and gay. Gay couples, guys flirting with other guys, girls buying drinks for other girls, a handful of drag queens strutting across the floor… this was a gay bar. Harry felt his face go red. Abruptly, Harry was consumed by the sudden worry that he hadn’t responded to Seamus and Dean’s confession. In his own little world, he hadn’t noticed the conversation moving forward without him, as Malfoy and the couple started in on some story about a next door neighbour’s cat and an unfortunate incident with a tuba player. Harry found himself interrupting before he had even registered he was speaking. His voice was so quiet, it was barely audible over the music, but all three heard. “I’m glad you found each other.”

There was silence for half a beat, and then with a small smile Dean reached over and placed his hand over Harry’s, that he hadn’t even realized was shaking. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Now, Malfoy, I believe you’ve got first round? You’re not going to wiggle out of it this time, mate! You lost the bet!” Seamus seamlessly changed the tone of the conversation.

As Malfoy squawked his dissent, Dean leaned over to Harry conspiratorially and lowly intoned, “Seamus bet Malfoy he couldn’t pull this fit guy at the bar last Friday.”

_Well. I guess that answered that question._

Harry was soon swept up in a sea of smiles, banter, and petty squabbles, and discovered he didn’t mind. Sitting as an observer, he didn’t mind sitting amongst this boisterous group of friends. And in turn, they didn’t mind when he didn’t speak. He was struck by a thought which suddenly became the most important thing to him. _They don’t expect anything of me. They… accept me as I am. This twisted, shriveled thing._

They didn’t exclude him or close him off from the conversation, they left openings for him to respond or jump in if he felt like it, but he couldn’t. They didn’t say one word about it, or shoot him a single strange look since he’d arrived. He had a drink in front of him, from the first round Malfoy had gotten them at the beginning of the night, but he didn’t touch it. It made him too nervous to drink – he needed to be ready. Just in case. Halfway into the night, Seamus said easily, “Do ya mind if I take that?” And with a small incline of Harry’s head in assent, he reached across Dean to nab the drink, downing it in one go.

“Oh come on, Seamus! If you hurl I sure as HELL am not helping drag you home,” Malfoy complained. Harry was just inwardly grateful his drink was gone and he didn’t have to worry about it sitting awkwardly in front of him anymore. He was also glad that nobody commented on the fact he hadn’t drank. No spotlight on him here.

Before he knew it, it was the end of the night. 2am, last call, and the gang got up to head out. “You better be taking the bus home,” Malfoy sternly told Seamus and Dean, who were drunkenly leaning on each other and whispering sweet-nothings like they weren’t in the middle of a public street. “Don’t apparate and drive!”

Dean groaned. “You make the same joke every single time Draco, when will you get that it’s not that funny.”

Harry startled out a laugh. They all turned to look at him, but before Harry could feel self-conscious, Seamus just smiled at him really big, and said, “There ya are, Harry. Good to meet ya!” and then threw up all over the ground.

“I TOLD YOU SEAMUS, I’M NOT BRINGING YOU HOME IF YOU VOMIT!” Malfoy yelled indignantly. Meanwhile, Dean was falling over himself laughing, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle along. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on what Seamus had said before he’d vomited.

“Alright, alright, grandpa. We’re taking the bus. I can take care of him. Been doing it enough these past two years…” Dean grumbled, finally over his laughing fit.

As Dean supported Seamus and stumbled off towards the bus stop, Malfoy turned to Harry and indicated the path ahead, back towards the church. “Shall we?”

“Sure… but I have to admit I have no fucking clue where I am,” Harry confessed. The night had lifted some heaviness from him.

There was a questioning look in Malfoy’s eyes, but whatever he wanted to ask, he didn’t. Instead, he said, “That’s okay, we’ll figure it out together.”

He cast a locator spell and had Harry tell him the address. They allowed it to lead them onward, the light shielded by Malfoy’s hands.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Malfoy asked, again casually, flicking his eyes over to Harry before returning them to the glowing compass arrow.

“Yeah, actually, I did,” Harry admitted, scratching the back of his head.

“I’m glad,” Malfoy smiled warmly at him.

Before Harry could help himself, he was blurting out, “So you’re gay?” Malfoy raised one of his eyebrows at the outburst.

“Yes, I am. And so are Seamus and Dean. Well technically Dean is bisexual,” He finished, squinting and looking off into the distance.

“Oh,” was all Harry could respond with. Malfoy paused, as if considering whether or not he should ask his next question.

Finally, he asked Harry as casually as he could, “So how are things with you and Ginny?”

“ _Ginny?_ I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call her that in your life,” Harry retorted. If Malfoy saw it as the deflection tactic that it was, he didn’t comment.

“Well there’s a first time for everything. You can call me Draco, if you want.” Harry scrunched up his face, making it clear what he thought of _that_ idea. Draco laughed softly.

“Well if you don’t mind, I’m going to start calling you Harry,” Draco cheekily responded.

With a long-suffering sigh, Harry acquiesced. “If you must.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until it was Harry who broke the silence this time. “Ginny…” he cleared his throat. “Ginny and I broke up, shortly after the Battle.”

Malfoy turned to look at him as they walked, indicating he was listening, but didn’t speak, able to tell that Harry wasn’t done yet. It took Harry a long time to collect his thoughts these days, let alone share them. It was like prying metal bars off his rib cage. It took energy, energy he didn’t often have. Tonight had given him some of that energy. Besides, Harry wanted to share this tiny part of himself with Malfoy. Malfoy had shown Harry his world tonight, so he wanted to give him a little something in return.

“We… we knew it wasn’t right. I couldn’t… I loved her, but I wasn’t in love with her, we realized. It’s funny how during the war all I wanted was a future with her, and then after…” he let his words trail off. The _I couldn’t imagine anything worse_ was left unsaid.

For the first time all night, a mournful tone took over Draco’s voice, and a shadow crossed over his face. “Yeah, it’s funny how wrong the things you dream of during war can be.”

Harry’s thoughts immediately flashed to Draco’s life during the war. His time living with Voldemort. The dark mark on his arm, hidden under his tousled and slightly open button-up. They let the silence grow between them as they continued walking onwards. It was another fifteen minutes before Harry dared to speak.

“I don’t believe that.”

Malfoy startled, clearly not expecting Harry to speak again, let alone so clearly and boldly after his demeanor tonight. “You don’t believe what?”

“About what you dreamed, during the war. You dreamed of a world where your parents’ lives would be spared. You dreamed of a world where you wouldn’t need to be afraid. You dreamed of a world where you and your loved ones could be safe. Those dreams weren’t wrong.”

Malfoy let out a strangled sound, before saying, “You don’t need to try and justify it. I was a monster. I guess I still am.”

“We’re all monsters in war. We all make choices. We all have to live with grief, and guilt,” Harry replied solemnly. He felt decades older than his years.

“Harry…” Draco voiced softly, still studying his face. Harry turned to Malfoy tiredly. He allowed his true face to show, no pretenses of stability.

“I was supposed to die, that night, in the Forbidden Forest. When your mother saved me, because she dreamed of that world too. A world where her son was safe, and she wouldn’t need to fear for his life. Voldemort killed me, and I died. But then, through magic no one can truly explain, I came back. When all those people lost their lives for me, _because of me_ , I came back. I’m supposed to be dead, but I’m walking around, living and breathing. I’m a monster too.”

“I don’t think that makes you a monster, Harry. I think that makes you a miracle,” Malfoy replied breathlessly. They walked in silence some more.

“Harry… why were you out tonight? What were you doing?” They stopped in front of Harry’s apartment complex.

Harry turned to face Malfoy, weighing his words. Finally, he answered, “I guess I was looking for a miracle.”

***

Harry didn’t get out bed for the two days following his night out with Malfoy. He was still reeling from everything that had happened. He felt emotionally exhausted. He went from leaving his apartment to die, to sitting in a gay bar all night with two of his former house mates, who were dating now, and _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people. Draco Malfoy, who was gay, and kind, and gracious, and… grappling with the war as well. Battling his own demons. But he managed to have that smile. That _smile_ , that showed warmth and geniality. He managed to have friends, that he went out to see every Friday night at a bar-and-club. He, despite his demons, had _life_. _How did he do that?_

This quandary was the reason Harry gave himself for why he couldn’t get Malfoy out of his head for the next week. He even started being haunted by a different dream – flashes of Malfoy smiling at him. _How does he do that?_ Harry wanted, no _needed_ , to find out. He wanted that too.

He got out of bed on Wednesday to see his Mind Healer. He didn’t want to admit to her what had brought him out of his apartment that Friday night, leading to the events that had captured his mind since. So, he’s ashamed to say, he omitted that part. He knew his Mind Healer could tell he was leaving out part of the story, but she didn’t push him to tell her, forcing it before he was ready. Eventually he knew he’d have to disclose those thoughts to her. But he was in such a different headspace now then he was then, even in the course of a few short days. This obsession with Friday night had given him a sense of purpose driven by this _need_ – to understand, to smile, to be happy, to live. The opposite to the thoughts that had driven him out of his apartment that night.

When he was finished recounting his tale, his Mind Healer looked at him with a thoughtful expression on her face, before finally saying, “We haven’t talked a lot about Ginny, since we started.”

“Really?! That’s what you got out of that entire story?” Harry asked incredulously, his mind racing with all the stuff he’d have called out instead. Seamus and Dean’s relationship, the fact that Draco Malfoy is living in Brighton of all places, that he’s gay too, and even the fact that Harry had guilt over coming back to life. Surely _that_ was more meaningful than his avoidance of the topic of his late girlfriend.

His Mind Healer just leveled him with a sharp look as if to say _yes, I know there’s other things to dissect here, I’m not a professional for nothing._ Looking sheepish, Harry rerouted to her line of questioning. “That’s because there’s not really a lot to say.”

“You haven’t had a lot of romantic relationships in your life. There was Ginny, and then before that there was… Cho?”

“Yes, Cho Chang. I guess those were both, sorta, not really relationships. But sorry if I was a bit preoccupied with OTHER THINGS than my dating life up until now,” Harry spat defensively.

His Mind Healer didn’t rise to the bait.

“And before you, Cho dated Cedric Diggory, is that right?” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard Harry’s protestations at all.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Harry answered with a sense of finality.

“But, as you said, there was other stuff to pull from that story. Like how you feel about your… _resurrection_ , if you will. I don’t think we can talk about one without talking about the other,” the Mind Healer replied, raising one eyebrow. She knew she had him. Harry scowled at her, crossing his arms childishly.

“Okay, fine! You got me.”

“Tell me a little about how you felt about Cedric. When he was alive,” the Mind Healer asked kindly. Harry was silent for a moment. He tried to speak, clearing his throat as he stopped after the first sound. Taking a deep breath to center himself, he tried again.

“He… helped me. In the Triwizard Tournament, even though we were technically competing. Even though he had no real reason to help me, and plenty of reasons to want to win for himself and his family. He was like a… mentor. He was older than me. He was… so kind, and warm. He was strong, much stronger than me. He was a real hero,” Harry finished softly.

“And how did Cedric help you with the Tournament?” his Mind Healer continued.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t you already know all this?”

“No harm in going over it again,” she responded, remaining effortlessly calm and impassive in the face of Harry’s frustration.

“He pulled me aside, one day. He—he told me—” Harry found himself blushing and he wasn’t entirely sure why. “It was vague. A riddle. I didn’t get it at first. He told me the prefect’s bathroom was a good place to take a bath.” Harry brought his arm up to scratch the back of his head.

“So he approached you, and told you to go to a private place to take a bath, and at first you didn’t realize he was trying to help you with the next tournament task,” the Mind Healer summed up.

Harry rolled his eyes, even as his face maintained its harsh blush. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“Hmm. Let’s come back to that later,” the Mind Healer said, a knowing look in her eye. If Harry registered what she was implying, he suppressed the thought before it was even a flicker in his consciousness.

“I thought we were going to talk about my death,” Harry criticized. His Mind Healer raised both of her eyebrows.

“You’d like to talk about that? I’m surprised you’re so eager.”

“Yeah well… you were the one who brought it up! I was just reminding you because you _clearly_ seem to have forgotten,” Harry retorted, embarrassed.

“Oh, I hadn’t forgotten!” she responded cheerfully. Then, more seriously, “I want to talk about this guilt you seem to have, about coming back.”

“Malfoy called it a miracle,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“I’m glad to hear your mind immediately went to those words when I brought it up,” his Mind Healer remarked. Harry shrugged, looking down and not making eye contact.

“This guilt seems to me to be not unlike the guilt you feel for Cedric’s death, as well. In general, the feelings you have about other people losing their lives around you,” the Mind Healer explained. Harry winced, hearing it spoken so plainly.

“When you spoke with Dumbledore, post-death, how did he explain what had happened again?” Harry knew she remembered, but that she was leading him towards some pivotal point she wanted him to realize. He sighed.

“He said it was because of the strength of my mother’s sacrifice. And that Voldemort had taken part of that enchantment inside of him when he took my blood to remake his body,” Harry replied wearily.

“Yes! Precisely. Your mother’s sacrifice. So much of your life, Harry, has been centered around that initial sacrifice. It’s protected you time and time again. Protected your life,” she said animatedly.

“…yes… that’s true…” Harry responded hesitantly.

“Why did your mother sacrifice her life?”

“To save mine.” Harry didn’t remark on how stupid that question was. He could feel her building toward some kind of conclusion and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least momentarily.

“Did your mother want you to die? Would your mother have wished for you to have died in that forest? Did she die for you to die?” she asked in quick succession.

If he hadn’t been working with her for a year now, Harry would’ve been thrown off by her brusqueness. As it was, he startled but then contemplated her words.

“No… she would’ve been glad her sacrifice had saved me, one more time. That even though I had to ‘die’ to fulfil that prophecy she had known back then and lived in fear of… I would still get to live in the end. That her sacrifice hadn’t bought me years… it had bought me a lifetime,” Harry spoke slowly, allowing the words to form on his tongue, tumbling from his head without having realized they were in there all along, waiting to be found. He felt his eyes tearing up so he turned his head away, ashamed.

“Harry… so many people in your life have died to protect you. Is it possible, that instead of being angry or envious that you got to _choose life_ , or that by some… _miracle_ you were able to return to the living, they would rejoice? That they would be so happy, to know that someone they loved so deeply would get to continue on? That their deaths had enabled life for others, just as your temporary death gave life to the wizarding world,” his Mind Healer said, softly yet passionately.

“Yes… there is a possibility…” Harry remembered the sadness in his father and Sirius’ eyes. How they couldn’t tell him to go into that clearing and face Voldemort and accept death. He wondered if perhaps that was less about nobly allowing him to make that decision for himself, and more about how they couldn’t bring themselves to tell their son, _their son_ , to go to his death, damn the consequences. Because thinking back to that walk through the woods… there was no choice. Not for him. What would he have done if he didn’t confront Voldemort? What would have happened to everyone, everyone in Hogwarts who had battled so tirelessly and were facing near-inevitable torture, death, and enslavement, as the wizarding world fell under Voldemort’s control? If he had walked away, what kind of life would he have had? There wasn’t a choice, not really. What choice exists in a prophecy?

“I think that’s about enough for today,” his Mind Healer spoke, again so softly. “I just have one final question for you Harry. After everything we’ve discussed today, can you see Mr. Malfoy’s perspective? That perhaps your resurrection, rather than being a monstrous thing, was a miracle?”

“I’m… I’m not sure. I think I can see his perspective. I’m not sure if I agree yet,” Harry struggled to reply.

“I can live with _yet_ ,” his Mind Healer joked with a small smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. Harry hadn’t even realized he had said that. _I’m not sure if I agree yet._ It’s amazing how only a few short days could feel like a thousand years. How so much could change over a matter of hours. Over a conversation. Over a person.

Harry wondered how, without him telling her, she had managed to address his thoughts from that Friday night that he had hidden from his tale. He was thankful, not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), that Hermione had handed him that note.

“I’ll see you back next week, Harry.”

***

The next Friday following _the Incident_ , as Harry had deemed to call it in his mind, he discovered Draco Malfoy outside his apartment building, buzzing to be let up. Shocked, Harry buzzed him in without thought. It felt like only seconds later that there was a knock at his door.

It took Harry a moment to unlock it. He had to remove several different charms and wards, then unlock seven muggle locks of varying types, before he could throw the door open. If Malfoy overheard these machinations, he said nothing of it.

Instead, he found an overly-nonchalant Malfoy leaning against his door frame, dressed immaculately in figure-hugging black slacks and a dark rose silky button-down, unbuttoned far deeper than what one might call ‘proper’, the hint of a musky yet sweet cologne drifting gently off him. Harry could hardly speak for a moment as he took Malfoy in, a handsome femininity about his look that he found himself envious of, eyeing it hungrily. He stopped himself, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. _What was wrong with him? What was happening lately? The entire universe has gone mad._

“Hey there, Harry! Ready to go?” Draco’s voice snapped Harry out of his mental fog.

“…I’m sorry, go?” Harry struggled to catch up with that was going on. He found it was often like that, around Malfoy.

“Yes, go! It’s Friday night. Time to head out. I’m sure Dean and Seamus are already there, the smug bastards,” Draco muttered lightheartedly.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d want me to come. Again.” Harry stumbled out his reply. Before he knew it, Draco was forcing his way into Harry’s apartment.

“Of course we’d want you to come! Don’t be daft. I’ll just pop on the kettle and sit here and wait while you get ready. Throw on a nice shirt, polish your glasses… whatever it is you do to get ready for a night out on the town,” Draco said animatedly, clearly making himself at home in Harry’s kitchen area. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t _have_ a particular thing he did to get ready, because he’d never had a _night out on the town_ before last Friday. He was either _Saving the Wizarding World_ or being a recluse.

Hurrying into his bedroom, Harry closed and locked the door. He leaned back against it, trying to catch his breath. _This has got to be an alternate reality. I’ve got to have stepped into another dimension. How else would it explain the fact that Malfoy is sat making himself a cup of tea in my flat?_

Once again shaking his head to clear his mind, Harry threw open his wardrobe and frantically flicked through his clothes. He began to panic that he wouldn’t have anything even close to the effortlessly sexy look Malfoy was sporting tonight, with his pink silk and his tailored slacks. Then he paused to marvel at the fact that he was panicking over something so trivial and frivolous. Not over escape routes, or overly-thankful and invasive wizards, or nightmares, or anything else that haunted him both asleep and awake… no. Over clothes to go out to a gay bar. _Life sure is strange... make that completely fucking ridiculous._ The fact that he had referred to Malfoy’s look as _sexy_ slipped his notice.

Finally, he settled on a black shirt that looked respectable enough, and some dark wash jeans that had actually been washed fairly recently, unlike the rest of his clothes lying heaped on the floor. Harry had been unable to find the energy nor the care to clean them, the muggle way or magically. He splashed some water in his face, hoping to wake himself up. From what, he wasn’t sure. _Was this a dream or a nightmare?_ He almost went to ‘fix’ his hair, before realizing it was and always would be a lost cause and he was better off not even trying.

Walking out of his bedroom, there Malfoy sat, indeed sipping from a cup of lemon tea, his legs crossed in front of him. “Ready?”

Harry shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Great! Let’s go.” Malfoy jumped up, magicking his mug clean. Before Harry could think to protest, Malfoy had grasped his hand in his, and had apparated them away from Harry’s isolated flat into the great unknown.

***

They landed in what appeared to be a hidden cutaway in a dark alley. Before Harry’s breath could catch-up to his body Malfoy was already tugging on his hand, still clasped in his own. He marched them out of the darkness into the vibrant Brighton streets. Harry recognized the road immediately as the one they had awkwardly walked down last Friday, from the church to the gay district.

“Sorry, we can’t apparate any closer to the bar. There’s not a reliably safe spot. We’ll have to walk from here,” Malfoy said apologetically. Harry was still caught up on the fact that they had just apparated. He always felt kilometres behind when it came to Malfoy.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, before Harry spoke before he’d even given himself permission to do so, “Malfoy—can I ask you a question?”

Malfoy sighed. “I do wish you’d call me Draco,” he answered. “But sure, ask me what you wish.”

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Harry began, with even more emphasis on his last name. “What did you think… of Cedric Diggory?” _Why would he ask that question? Why, after all this time, is he even mentioning his name?_

“Cedric?” Malfoy asked, surprised, but also with a mournful quality to his voice. They walked in silence some more, and Harry started to worry Malfoy wasn’t going to answer.

“Well, not to be crass, but. He sure was a well fit bloke if I ever saw one. To be completely frank, had many a wet dream about that one,” Malfoy answered bluntly, none of the traces of his earlier sadness colouring his tone.

Harry choked on his spit.

“That— _That’s what you thought of him?!_ ” Harry said incredulously, but with laughter in voice. A small part of himself was grateful that Malfoy had somehow managed to lift the mood and drag Harry out of his dark thoughts.

“I mean, come on, Harry. You’d have to be blind not to see how hot he was. Smart, strong, kind… and then there was his face,” Malfoy looked off, comically wistful, towards the night sky. “And then that _body_. Ompf.”

Harry found himself laughing so hard he had to fight to catch his breath and breathe normally again. _When was the last time he’d laughed like that?_ It was oddly reminiscent of the same question he’d asked himself this time last week.

They turned at the intersection and before Harry knew it, he was walking towards the same bar from last Friday. Through the doors, his eyes searched for the familiar faces of his former house mates. _Was he actually looking forward to hanging out with them again?_ Looking forward to things was a new experience for Harry recently.

Malfoy draped his arm lazily over Harry’s shoulders. “Come on, Harry. I see those two nauseating lovebirds.” The men in question were seated in a booth on the other side of the bar from last Friday. But they were seated with another, who Harry couldn’t quite make out from this angle. They moved closer, and when they turned to face the booth, Harry finally recognized the mysterious stranger.

“ _Oliver?_ Oliver Wood?!” Harry exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. He blinked several times just to clear them. _Would he ever stop being surprised by these people?_

“Oh! Hiya Harry! I didn’t know you were in Brighton,” Oliver called out pleasantly.

“I could say the same to you! I’m shocked to see you, mate,” Harry replied. It was more words than he’d said to someone other than his Mind Healer in months. He noticed Dean and Seamus raising their eyebrows at Malfoy while he nodded in agreement to whatever silent conversation they were having above his head, but he ignored them.

“Come now, let’s all sit down,” Malfoy said, switching gears again. Nevermind the fact that it was only Harry and Malfoy that were still standing. They all squished in. Unlike last week, their booth wasn’t two cushioned benches across from each other divided by a square table. This time, it was a u-shaped couch that was wrapped around a larger, circular table. Harry was grateful he found himself at one of the ends, so he could get up and excuse himself if it all got too overwhelming. Looking over to see Malfoy watching him, he wondered if that was intentional.

They quickly fell into conversation with each other, Harry perfectly happy to fade into the background again as a silent observer, and his companions happy to let him. He heard all about Oliver’s illustrious quidditch career (Harry had stopped following the sport shortly after the war ended. It had seemed strange to watch what he had once loved so much and feel nothing but emptiness). Then he heard about how the showing had gone at the gallery ( _You should’ve seen it, the critics were raving about him, his piece had buyers only five minutes into the show_ ). He was starting to wonder if he’d ever find out what it was that Malfoy did for a living, when something new in the conversation caught his interest. Seamus had turned to Oliver and was asking, “So has the wife managed to pry themselves away from the Ministry?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “ _Yes, yes_ , they’re walking over with the pints now, Christ.”

Harry was about to remark to the table that he didn’t know that Oliver was married, but was immediately made glad he didn’t. Pints were set down on the tabletop with a thud, some beer sloshing over the edge of some of the glasses. “There you go, you pricks,” went a distinctly _male_ voice.

Harry turned to look up at the source of the voice. It was Percy Weasley.

This time, Harry couldn’t even bring himself to exclaim at the sight. He sat in shocked silence, his mouth hanging open in surprise. He only barely managed to hear, moments later, Seamus joke _Oh no, we broke him._ Malfoy knocked into his shoulder, causing Harry to turn towards him, the shock still broadcasted on his face.

“Hey, you still with us?” Malfoy poked his cheek. That gesture alone got Harry back from his stupor, as he jerked away from the incessant digit.

“Sorry,” Harry coughed out gruffly.

“Well, now _that’s_ over, Harry, this is Percy Weasley, Oliver’s fiancé,” Seamus helpfully supplied. Harry looked back up at Percy, who gave an awkward half-salute.

“Come on babe, sit down. Hey Malfoy, do you mind if you and Harry shuffle out so he can sit next to me?” Oliver voiced to both Percy and Malfoy in turn. He batted his eyes exaggeratedly at Malfoy, clasping his hands in a pleading gesture.

“Ugh, I swear, I’m surrounded by lovesick losers,” Malfoy grumbled, but it was lessened by the fact that he was already bouncing out of the bench, gently herding Harry out with him.

“Thanks,” Percy told them awkwardly, before shuffling in and up against Oliver’s side, who proceeded to wrap his arm around the ginger man and tug him close to his chest. Percy lay his head down against his shoulder, shutting his eyes for a moment. As Malfoy and Harry shuffled back in, Harry could hear Oliver intimately asking his fiancé _Rough day at the office?_

He must be in an alternate reality. That was the only explanation for it. How else would he be in a gay bar, in Brighton, where seemingly every person he had ever met had turned out to be gay. _Everyone, except him_ , his brain helpfully reminded him.

“This,” Malfoy gestured around the table to the four other men in the booth, “Is the main crew. We come here every Friday. Last week you missed out on that particular lovefest—” Oliver and Percy were now making out, “—because it was their anniversary. So they didn’t come, fortunately for us.”

“Oh, they came, it just luckily wasn’t anywhere near us,” Seamus jibed, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Harry flushed red at the implication, while Dean elbowed Seamus in the ribs.

“So do you always… hang out here?” Harry managed to address the group.

“Nah, Harry. Once a month, we actually have _family dinner night_. One of us has to cook dinner for the rest of us cretins, and on occasion any other lost soul in need of a family for the evening,” Dean answered him.

“Oh. Family dinner?” Harry still felt kind of confused.

“Yeah, family! We’re all strong believers in the notion of _chosen family_. The family you have not by blood, pure or otherwise, but by choice. The people who love you, not because biology tells them to, or because society or the law requires them to, but because they know you, genuinely _you_ , as a person, and have decided _you are mine and I am yours._ That you’re brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, mothers, fathers, and everything else in-between. And gender neutral of course, the whole shebang,” Oliver chimed in passionately.

“Awww, stop it Oliver, ya gonna make me cry,” Seamus flapped his hand in Oliver’s face, faking a sobbing face. Oliver lightly smacked Seamus’ hand away, who feigned hurt to get Dean to ‘kiss his hand better’. Harry just took in the scene while his mind kept swimming.

“I’d appreciate it, Harry, if you didn’t tell Ron about this,” Percy said seriously, picking his head up from Oliver’s chest for the first time since he had sat down.

“Percy, why you gotta ruin the mood? Coming in with the serious stuff,” Seamus complained. This time, everyone at the table shushed him. When Oliver reprimanded him _Stop it, this is actually serious_ , Seamus had the decency to look ashamed.

Harry nodded seriously. “I haven’t spoken to Ron in nine months,” he confessed without thinking of how that admission would be received.

Silence fell on the table.

“You—haven’t spoken to Ron in nine months?” Surprisingly, it was Percy who voiced the question on everyone else’s lips. Harry suddenly felt very embarrassed and like all eyes were on him, which to be fair, they were.

“Yeah—after I came to Brighton… I don’t know. We just. He just…” Harry trailed off, shrugging helplessly. He didn’t know how he was going to finish that sentence.

“What about Granger?” Percy pushed.

“I haven’t spoken to her in even longer,” Harry admitted sheepishly.

“How long,” Malfoy cut in, deadpan.

“Umm… I’m not sure actually. Maybe ten months? No, I’d say eleven,” Harry was cringing before he’d even finished. Malfoy did not look happy with his answer.

Once again, it was Percy who surprisingly intervened. “Anyway, the point is: not a word of this to the rest of the family. Please.”

“Okay,” Harry responded evenly. Then he faded back to silence. The group recovered and continued on with their light-hearted conversations on the events of the past week in each of their lives. The conversation shifted near the end to the next family dinner. Harry gathered that the last one they’d had was the week before _the Incident_.

“Who’s turn is it again?” Dean asked, nose scrunched up.

“Theirs, bozo,” Seamus snarked, pointing an accusing finger at Percy and Oliver.

“Hey! We’re not denying that fact. I’m planning on making a fabulous duck breast with pomegranate-citrus glaze,” Percy crowed proudly.

Silence again. Then, “Merlin, you are _so gay_ ,” Seamus voiced. Everyone at the table burst out laughing, including Oliver, while Percy squawked that he didn’t know what they were talking about. Harry sat quietly.

“Okay, so it’s decided,” Malfoy said, clapping his hands. “The Friday after next, we meet up at Oliver and Percy’s townhouse, and have some… duck… pomegranate… I’m sorry what did you say it was again?” This set everyone off again, and it took them another five minutes to recover.

“Well, I’m calling it a night!” Percy stood up.

“Oh, come on babe, we were just joking. You know we all love you,” Oliver placed a reassuring hand on Percy’s arm, pulling him back down again onto the seat before pecking him on the cheek. Abruptly serious, each member jumped to reassure and placate Percy, talking about how much they cared for and valued him as a friend and brother. _They really are… a family. Not like any I’ve known_ , he thought bitterly.

“But in all seriousness though, we really should be going,” Oliver declared, glancing down at his watch.

“Christ on a bike, is it that late already? Love, we’ve got to go,” Seamus said, nudging Dean out of the booth.

All members of their rag-tag gang got up, settled their tabs at the bar, and headed out into the chilly streets. It was 2am, so they had just managed to get up to leave as last call ended. The couples separated, leaving Malfoy and Harry on their own again. They stood silently for a moment, before Malfoy turned to Harry, saying “Shall we?” It was the first time since they’d first run into each other, Harry noticed, that Malfoy looked nervous. Harry decided in that moment to be confident in his place. He reached out and grabbed Malfoy’s hand in his own, this time tugging _him_ forward. “Yes, let’s go.”

***

“I was surprised to hear that you hadn’t spoken to Weasley and Granger in so long,” Malfoy mentioned as they walked towards Harry’s flat. Harry briefly wondered where it was that Malfoy lived, and whether he was going far out of his way to bring him home.

“I wish you’d call them Ron and Hermione,” Harry responded dryly, imitating Malfoy from earlier that night.

“Ha ha, very funny. Okay, wise guy. Why haven’t you spoken to Ron and Hermione?” Draco revised his earlier question.

Harry didn’t know if it was the fact that it was almost 3am or that Draco had actually used his friends’ first names, but he found himself confessing his thoughts once more.

“I’m not… sure to be honest. I hadn’t even realized it had been that long until tonight.” Harry paused, and once again Draco indicated he was listening with a soft hum but did not interrupt, waiting for Harry to gather his thoughts. “I guess it started because I moved out from their flat to get away from—all of it. I wanted to be alone. Separate. Calling them just reminded me of living there. It didn’t feel like a clean break. So… I stopped reaching out. And they respected that.”

“So they haven’t heard from you in nine months? And they haven’t said anything? They’re not worried?” Malfoy responded incredulously.

“Hey, I didn’t say that! We’ve texted, a few times. Hermione demands that I send her a text at least once a month telling her that I’m okay,” Harry replied defensively.

“Oh, wow, once a month. The concern is just dripping off them. I’m really moved,” Malfoy sneered, face contorted with it.

“Hey, shut your mouth! You don’t know shit about them! You don’t know _shit_ about what we’ve been through together!” Harry roared. He hadn’t felt rage like this in so long. It was almost comforting to feel it buzzing through his veins.

“I’m just saying, it seems strange to me that those _friends_ of yours, who have, as you said, been through so much with you together, don’t feel the need to be concerned beyond a monthly text message about their _buddy_ ,” Malfoy viciously replied. Later, Harry would reflect that this viciousness wasn’t directed towards him like it would’ve been in the past—it was _for_ him.

“They’re _respecting me!_ They reached out at first and I didn’t want them to! They’re following _my_ wishes. They’re not going around forcing me to leave my flat to go to some _gay bar_ every Friday night!” Harry fought back.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Some _gay bar_ ,” Malfoy parroted, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing. This was a mistake. I never should’ve come out tonight.” Harry wearily replied, feeling the fight leech from him. _I never should’ve left my flat._ Now why did that sound so familiar?

“No—Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your friends. I know that they’re important to you,” Malfoy rushed to make amends. They were approaching the front of Harry’s apartment complex.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry said without meeting his eyes, before turning and walking towards the entrance.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Malfoy whispered behind him. Harry didn’t turn around.

***

It took Harry until Tuesday to grab his phone and call Hermione. He refused to acknowledge it was Malfoy who had inspired him to do this after so long. He was merely… cashing in on his personal promise to one day let Hermione know how grateful he was for the information on the Mind Healer.

“Harry?” Hermione answered, voice frantic. Harry winced. Maybe it really had been too long.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” Harry softly replied.

“Harry. Oh Harry,” Hermione obviously tried to calm down and rein herself in. “Hey, what’s up?” Harry found himself cringing again, just because of how forcedly casual that sounded.

And just like that, they were soon talking like old friends again. It was rusty to start off with, a little awkward and fumbling, partly because Harry was so unused to speaking in general. Luckily, Hermione had plenty to share about her work, her family, and her life with Ron. And then about Ron himself. Harry then found himself sharing how much the Mind Healer was helping him, and finally thanked her for directing him to her.

“Of course, Harry. You know I’d do anything for you,” Hermione responded, her voice warm and caring. It was these words that left Harry flashing back to the conversation he had last Friday with Malfoy. He snorted before he could help himself.

“What…” Hermione said, confused hurt in her tone.

“No, sorry Hermione! That wasn’t directed at you. I know that you would do anything for me,” Harry rushed to reassure her.

“Oh, okay,” Hermione replied, easily assuaged. “Then wait… who was that directed at?”

“So… I, uh—I ran into Malfoy.”

“You—ran into _Malfoy?!_ ” Hermione cried.

“Yeah. Here in Brighton,” he provided.

“What… what’s he like?” she asked, morbid curiosity evident in her tone.

“Gay,” Harry answered before he could stop himself.

“Oh. Really? I wouldn’t have pegged him for that,” Hermione replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry said defensively. Defensive of what, he wasn’t sure.

“Oh, I just mean—” Harry could practically hear her frowning through the phone, considering her words. “I don’t know what I mean actually. I guess all that old-money pureblood nonsense. That doesn’t really leave room for homosexuality. But I guess too, that doesn’t stop him from being gay, even if his world dictates something else. Huh, I feel like I have a whole knew understanding of Malfoy,” she explained contemplatively.

“Yeah, okay Hermione I followed about half of that, but I’ll take your word for it,” Harry said.

“I mean, Harry, just think about it! Listen, disclaimer: I’m not saying Malfoy wasn’t a creepy little twerp who did abhorrent things. Because he was. The worst. But speaking only about this… I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been, to have Lucius as a father, when inside you’re struggling with the fact that you’re gay. I hardly see Lucius as the _tolerant_ type. I mean, abusive to boot, and probably obsessed with the idea of producing heirs and strong heterosexual marriages between pureblood families. He probably had very strict ideas of masculinity too,” Hermione rattled off.

“Careful, ‘Mione, you’re starting to sound like one of your uni classes,” Harry replied with a scoff. Hermione had started taking night classes at a muggle university post-war. She said she missed learning, and regretted abandoning all muggle education once she entered Hogwarts (excluding muggle studies, which wasn’t quite the same thing).

“I’m just saying,” Hermione said huffily. Harry filed what she had said into the back of his mind to examine later.

“But Harry—with this Malfoy thing… I want you to be careful, okay?”

“ _Careful_ … Hermione, you don’t seriously think he’s still a d-death eater or something do you?” Neither mentioned the fact that Harry stumbled slightly over the word _death eater_.

“No, no, of course not. I just mean… well, when we were in school, you got quite obsessed with him, later on,” Hermione carefully suggested.

“Because I thought he was up to something, and I was right!” Harry protested.

“I know Harry, I’m not saying you weren’t! I’m just saying… I mean, you hardly slept or ate, you were obsessed with following him, and listening in on him, and… _you_ don’t think he’s up to something, do you?” Hermione struggled to explain her concerns.

“No! Christ, no. I’m just. I don’t know… hanging out with him. I guess. As fucking strange and ridiculous as that sounds,” Harry said.

“Well, okay. I can’t say I’m not glad you’re getting out of your flat and seeing people. I’ve said my piece, and now I’m done,” Hermione acquiesced.

“Okay. Good. Now tell me more about this turtle Ron’s adopted…”

***

“I’m glad to hear you reached back out to your friends, Harry.”

Harry was back in his Mind Healer’s office for another session. Every Wednesday, without fail, he sat here with her. It was the one routine he had maintained the entire year he’d been living in Brighton since he’d started with her.

“Yeah, I’m glad I did too actually,” Harry admitted.

“You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. I don’t know what’s more surprising… the fact that talking to Hermione felt like it was just yesterday since we last talked, or that it was Malfoy who drove me to call her in the first place,” Harry answered her query, ending with a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I am intrigued by what Hermione said. It goes without saying you and Mr. Malfoy have a… complicated history. It’s interesting that you’ve always had this draw towards one another,” his Mind Healer pontificated.

“I guess you could call it that. There are three things you can rely on in life: death, taxes, and Malfoy being a pain in my ass,” Harry said wryly. His Mind Healer actually gave a little laugh at that.

“I wanted to go back to talking about Cedric, continuing our conversation from last week,” his Mind Healer redirected. Harry groaned. His Mind Healer responded only with a small smile.

“So. He helped you in the tournament. Later, you dated Cho. How did that relationship go?”

“Well, really shitty, if you must know. She was really torn up about Cedric’s death. I was too. She felt guilty for being with me. We knew it wasn’t right. She ended things,” Harry recounted shortly.

“Did you see Cedric in her?” his Mind Healer asked.

“I mean, yeah. She reminded me of Cedric whenever I was with her. I thought it would bring us closer together, because we were both struggling with his death. But it only drove us farther apart,” Harry replied despondently.

“Because you weren’t Cedric,” she said.

“Yeah. Because I couldn’t be Cedric, who was what she really wanted, and who she missed,” Harry agreed.

“And because she wasn’t Cedric.”

Silence reigned in the room. The Mind Healer let it fester between them.

“…yeah, I guess so. I wasn’t really searching for a relationship, I was hoping through her to grieve Cedric and it didn’t work. That relationship was doomed to fail before it began,” Harry slowly collected himself.

His Mind Healer didn’t respond for a moment. She only looked at him, as if considering. Then she moved on.

“So, let’s talk about—”

“Actually—” Harry cut her off. “Can we talk about something Malfoy said instead?”

“I’m starting to see what Hermione was saying,” his Mind Healer joked. “But sure Harry. What’s on your mind?”

“What he said… about my friends. Do you think what he said was true?”

“Do _you_ think it’s true?”

“Hey, no, none of that! Don’t turn it back on me. I’m genuinely asking you,” Harry called her out.

His Mind Healer sighed. “I don’t think what he said was untrue,” she said, holding up a hand to stop Harry, whose mouth was already open in protest. “I think there’s both healthy and unhealthy things in every single relationship we have on this earth. I think it’s healthy and wonderful that you have friends who respect your boundaries, and don’t push you, and allow you space and time to heal. But at the same time… I think that can also easily allow them to become enablers. Without pushing you at all, they haven’t really aided in your recovery. They’ve allowed you to isolate yourself and become more and more introspective. I’m not blaming them—I think after everything you’ve been through together, it can be hard to criticize, even constructively, what another one is doing. I think, after everything you’ve been through, all they want for you is safety, and they think by giving you space and sticking to your request of no contact they’ll help you get it. Which is not a bad intention, but… it’s made my job a lot harder as a Mind Healer,” she finished with a light joke to soften her words.

Harry opened his mouth to protest as he had intended before, then closed it again. He opened it, then dropped into a frown. “Huh. I’m not sure how to take that. I’m going to have to think about it.”

“Good. I hope you do think about it, and everything else we discuss in here, critically. No person is always right, and that’s certainly true for me as well. If I say something or suggest something that you find to be untrue, I want you to challenge me on it. In general, I want you to start challenging things again. Thoughts, words, actions. Anything and everything,” his Mind Healer urged.

“You make it sound like I should be starting fights in the streets,” Harry snorted.

“You know what I mean,” she said, flapping her hand in Harry’s direction, which reminded him of Seamus from the other night.

“I’m looking forward to next Friday,” Harry suddenly declared.

“That’s good Harry. That’s good,” his Mind Healer said, looking at him with a smile. He could’ve almost sworn her eyes were slightly teary.

***

Friday came with a rather sheepish Malfoy at his door, hanging his head.

“Hi, it’s your pushy friend here, to see if you would possibly like to come out tonight to see the gang,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“Is that what we are? Friends?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow, milking it for all it was worth. Malfoy raised his head and saw the glittering in his eye, and he turned his face into a smirk instead.

“Well if you want more Harry, you’re going to have to take me out to dinner first,” he wiggled both his eyebrows suggestively. Harry flushed so red he was sure he was seconds from transfiguring himself into a lobster. He started to sweat.

Sensing his discomfort, Malfoy forged onwards. _Always so considerate of what I need, before I even know it myself_. “So, how about it? Heading out?”

“Sure, why not. What else have I got to do tonight,” Harry shrugged, trying for nonchalance.

Malfoy smiled and offered his hand. Harry took it, bracing himself for the whirl of apparation. It didn’t come. He looked up and met Malfoy’s eyes, that had been searching for his.

“I really am sorry, you know,” he said quietly and earnestly.

“I know.”

Then they were gone.

***

The night was how Harry had come to understand all Friday nights were with this chosen family—filled with laughter, gentle ribbing, gratuitous public displays of affection, and a feeling of safety and belonging that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

But all good things have a way of coming to an abrupt end.

It’s the smashing of glass that sets him off. The group turned to look at some commotion a few feet to the right of their booth. Two blokes had gotten into a heated argument with each other, which already had Harry feeling on-edge. They were up in each other’s faces, and then started shoving each other back and forth, spitting hostile words. A bartender was walking along behind one of the men, carrying a tray of empty beer glasses through the crowded bar, navigating through the mass of people in the direction of their booth. At the last shove, one of the fighting men lost his balance and toppled backwards into the bartender, whose tray slid from her hands. Time seemed to slow down as the tray made its descent towards the ground, glasses falling and smashing before the tray had even made impact, clattering up on its sides before settling flat on the floor. But suddenly, Harry wasn’t in the bar. He was racing through the Department of Mysteries.

_Glass orbs were smashing all around him as he raced down the aisles. Prophecies chorused behind him, getting increasingly indistinguishable as more voices joined the chant. A sick feeling was settling in his stomach as he raced. It was a trap; Sirius wasn’t here, he had been tricked like the child he was and now his friends were going to pay with their lives for his mistake. As shelves careened down around him, he heard the crunch of smashed glass like rough sand beneath his feet as he ran. The wisps and smoke of ghostly figures chased and surrounded him—ghosts of the prophecy makers, or dark ghosts of the death eaters swooping in? He couldn’t afford to slow down to see, he had to keep moving, keep running… Footsteps and shouts reached his ears but he wasn’t sure if they were near or far away—and he wasn’t sure which was worse. Arms encircled him from behind, and he threw his arms back, his elbow making contact as the threat reeled backwards, releasing him from their clutches. He spared no further thought to it; it was only a distraction to his escape. He had to get out. He had to get his friends out. More than anything, he needed to go faster._

He lost time, after that.

When he next came to reality, he was in an alleyway, somewhere. He heard distant music and crowds, so he assumed he had to be somewhere near the bar district. He felt the gravel beneath his feet. Rocks, and dirt. Not glass. He smelt soured milk and felt a light breeze, registering the sound of rustling leaves nearby. He was outside. He wasn’t in the Department of Mysteries. He next realized he was crouched down on the ground. His wand was clenched in his hand, ready to duel, if it weren’t for the fact that his hand was shaking again, so severely that he was more likely to curse his own foot than hit his target. Next, he smelt vomit. He must’ve thrown up. He took a short mental check of his body. He was physically functional. Next, he realized, he wasn’t alone. He opened his eyes.

Crouched in front of him, holding his shaky hands, talking to him, was Malfoy. _Malfoy_ , gently holding his shaking hands. _Malfoy_ , crouched next to his vomit. _Malfoy_ , trying to gain his attention, calling out to him softly, interchanged with reassurances. He couldn’t hear him at first, just muffled and warped sounds like through a thick fabric screen or from down a long tunnel. Slowly, sound returned to him. _You’re safe, you’re okay, you’re alive. He’s not here, they’re not here, nobody can hurt you. I’m here with you. You’re not alone. Harry, can you hear me? Harry? Please come back to me Harry. You’re safe here._

“ _Mal—foy_ ,” Harry croaked out. His throat felt rough from vomiting; he’d need to drink water to overcome that latent burning sensation. He heard Malfoy give a choked half laugh, half sob.

“There you are, Harry. Never thought I’d be glad to hear my last name from you again,” he joked, voice shaky. Harry knew the feeling. He was shaking so badly, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was from the episode he’d just had and how much of it was from the _cold_. He felt ice cold sweat cling to his skin, clammy hands still vibrating in Malfoy’s warm hold. He looked up to meet Malfoy’s eyes, and noticed a distinct red splotch around his right eye.

“What—what happened?” Harry asked with wonder, one of his hands slipping from Malfoy’s grasp to hover shakily in the air, before gently allowing his thumb to trace underneath his eye. Malfoy winced at the slight contact.

“You’ve got a mean right hook there, Harry,” Malfoy joked. As a look of horror took form on Harry’s face, he rushed to correct himself. “It was my fault, really, Potter. I shouldn’t have tried to put my arms around you to hold you back. It was stupid, honestly,” Malfoy trailed off, looking down bashfully.

“I—I punched you in the face?!” Harry struggled to sit up more. His legs were aching. His whole body hurt, actually. He gave up, dropping down to sit fully on the ground.

“Sorry, no! I should clarify. You just tried to shove me off, _again, my fault_ , and your elbow hit me by accident. No real harm done, honestly,” Malfoy implored, desperately trying to placate him.

“Huh. If past-me could see you now, apologizing to _me_ when I hurt _you_ … it’s absurd,” Harry scoffed. A sad and sympathetic look crossed Malfoy’s face, and he shook his head.

“Sorry about—” Harry gestured vaguely around the dark alley he found himself in, the reeking dumpster beside them, his vomit lying unmentioned on the graveled ground. “All this.”

“Nonsense. How else would I want to spend a Friday night,” Malfoy joked with a grin splitting his face. _How was it that he always managed to do that? Joke to lighten the mood, without minimizing what was happening or belittling its importance?_

“I’m sorry,” Harry tried again. “I just heard the shattering glass, and—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Malfoy cut him off, a serious look on his face.

“Oh.” Harry stopped. _I guess he doesn’t want to know. Dealing with me in the present is already enough of a burden._

“If you’d like to tell me though, I’d be honoured to hear,” Malfoy said reverently, a serious look on his face again. As if to prove his point, he followed Harry’s example and fell back from his crouch to sit on the ground, crossing his legs so he could keep holding Harry’s hand. They were both quiet, for a moment. Malfoy just sat, ever so casually, as if this was a completely normal occurrence. As if it was a regular event to be sat in an alleyway on a Friday night, foul smells cutting at his nose, with a complete basket case who’d just had a very public breakdown. That, more than anything, compelled Harry to open up for what felt like the millionth time. He didn’t have to tell him—Malfoy had made it clear that Harry didn’t owe him any explanation. A feeling settled in his heart, and he knew that if Harry just sat on the ground the rest of the night in total silence, Malfoy would happily sit with him, holding his hand. And after the night broke, Malfoy would gather him up and take him home. Take care of him. Present, but not pushy, beyond what he could handle. Managing to respect him while also gently prodding him forward. _Maybe this is what Malfoy meant, about my friends._

“I heard the shattering glass, and… I wasn’t in the bar anymore.”

He met Malfoy’s eyes, and he saw in them… understanding. As if he knew exactly what Harry meant. As if he’d been there before too.

“Where were you?” Malfoy asked softly, so softly.

“In the Department of Mysteries. When I broke in, with all my friends. Dumbledore’s Army…how stupid I was. How naïve, how self-important, to believe that I was this great leader, this great mentor, who had prepared all of us, _kids_! To take on death eaters. And then, because of that stupidity, Sirius—” Harry found himself choked up and starting to cry. “Sirius died—”

Harry couldn’t keep it in any longer, he burst into tears. Loud, heaving sobs that wracked his tired frame. Ugly, bitter cries to reflect his self-loathing; aching and desperate moans to show his unbearable grief, even after all this time.

“Oh Harry,” Malfoy whispered, before sweeping Harry into his arms, clutching him tightly to his chest. Despite everything, Harry couldn’t help but think _I’m ruining his silk shirt. He’s going to be devastated._ He choked out a laugh through his tears, before his sobs overcame him once more. He cried for a long time, gasping for air, snot mixing with the tears running down his face and onto Malfoy’s chest. Finally, his tears slowed down and he took deep shuddering breaths. Malfoy’s hands were gently running up and down his back in comfort.

“He was going to be my guardian. He was going to save me from the Dursley’s. I was going to be free.”

Harry didn’t have to tell him who he was talking about, they both knew. Malfoy hummed in response, to show he heard, but his emotion leaked through. He sounded choked up as well.

“You must think I’m a real freak,” Harry said finally, still clutched in Malfoy’s arms.

“No, Harry, not that. Never that. If you’re a monster I’m a monster, remember? If you’re a freak, I’m a freak then too,” Malfoy said determinedly. And with those words, Harry knew that Malfoy had in fact been there as well. That he wasn’t alone. Suddenly words came to him that he never would’ve imagined he’d think in his entire life up until this point: _I’m so glad Malfoy came into my life._

***

Just like Harry expected, Malfoy sat with him in that alley for a long while after. No more was said between them. Eventually, Harry pulled away and stood up, and following his lead, Malfoy apparated him home. Harry was grateful Malfoy hadn’t asked him if he could make it home by himself—Harry didn’t want to admit to the fact that he couldn’t possibly do magic right now, even if he tried. His hands still shook, if far less violently than before.

They didn’t talk about it. Malfoy didn’t confront him more with what had happened, and Harry didn’t ask Malfoy about his own history with flashbacks. Malfoy took Harry’s keys and let them into the apartment, before closing and carefully locking all seven of Harry’s muggle locks. Harry was too physically and emotionally drained to feel embarrassed at that. Leaning on Malfoy, he sat down at his kitchen table. Malfoy left him there, then returned a moment later with a tall glass of water. Holding it towards Harry, he gestured for Harry to take it, nodding his head as if to say _drink!_ Harry took it gladly, gulping it down. When he finished, Malfoy took the glass and refilled it, before handing it to Harry once more. This time, Harry sipped it more slowly. Once he finished the second glass, swallowing he coarsely said, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Draco replied easily, as if the events of the night had been as normal as bringing someone chicken noodle soup when they were sick, or maybe even a tissue. His face turned mournful and serious once more. “Thank you. For sharing with me. I’m glad I could be with you, when you were like that. It’s good not to be alone when that happens.”

“Are you normally alone?” There. He’d said it, he’d acknowledged what Malfoy had only hinted at before.

Swallowing, Malfoy looked towards the dark windows. “I used to be, at first. When they started. It was unbelievably… hard. Painful. Embarrassing. Terrifying.”

Harry didn’t respond, just looked up at Malfoy’s face, studying him in the faint moonlight coming from the window.

“It got better, once my father was put away. Then worse again, when I was living on my own for a while, solitary. I started seeing a Mind Healer, and that helped. But then one day, I met Seamus and Dean here. I don’t know what brought me to the bar that night—goodness knows I hadn’t left my flat in what felt like months. Some small part of me gasping for air, for stimulation, _something!_ It must’ve drawn me out. They didn’t give me the time of day, at first.” Malfoy laughed a little at this, but it was harsh and self-deprecating.

“But I kept going back to that bar, kept seeing them there. And one day, Seamus marches straight up to me, and stares me right in the face, eyes narrow. And I thought he was going to deck me, right then and there. Or curse me, even in the presence of some forty muggles. But he didn’t. He just said _The war is over. You were a dick then, are you a dick now?_ I was so stunned, I didn’t speak for a whole minute, just fish-mouthed. Finally, I said _I don’t think so. Or at least, I try not to be._ Seamus studied my face for about another thirty seconds, nodded, and said _Okay. Then we’re fine._ He stuck out his hand, shook it, and introduced me to his boyfriend Dean. And the rest is history!” Malfoy smiled at the window, lost in his own memories. Positively, for once.

“So no, I wasn’t alone anymore. It wasn’t long after that we met Percy and Oliver, and fell into our Friday night routine. Then we added on Saturday family dinner nights once a month, and before I knew it, I found myself a part of a family, for probably the first time in my life. They started helping me, when I had attacks. After a while, they faded off. I still get them, mind you. But a lot less frequently. My Mind Healer says it’s because one of my triggers is feeling under a lot of pressure and in constant danger but entirely alone. _I wonder why that might be_ ,” Malfoy ended, mouth twisted bitterly.

“I’m glad, that you found them,” Harry finally managed to find his voice. Malfoy broke his gaze from the window, meeting Harry’s eyes.

“I’m glad you found them too.”

***

It was Saturday, the following week, which meant Family Dinner Night. Harry felt oddly nervous, beyond what he’d feel for a regular Friday meet-up. _I’ve started calling them ‘regular’, Huh._

But unlike a ‘regular’ night out, it wasn’t the panicked kind of nervous energy from heading out from his safe and reinforced apartment into a world filled with people and unknown threats. Well of course that was _there_ , as it always was (and may always be), but more of an anxious butterfly feeling in his stomach. Nervous anticipation, rather than fear.

His appointment with his Mind Healer that past Wednesday had been a very productive one. He shared about his latest attack, and they talked through the incident and what had triggered it. They then reviewed his strategies to both manage and recover from them moving forward. She was very pleased to hear about Malfoy’s role in helping care for him during and after the attack. She told him that she was very happy to see him forging interpersonal relationships here in Brighton, for the first time since he’d arrived. She said she had seen the positive change in him since he had met the gang, and that it was certainly an important part of his recovery.

At the end of his session, they talked a little about this _family dinner night_ , and his hopes and fears for the evening. Harry shared with her that he was curious and kind of looking forward to visiting the townhouse that the two men shared together. When his Mind Healer questioned that, he admitted that he had known very few gay people in his life until now, when it seemed like all his friends (barring Ron and Hermione, he quickly noted), were gay.

_“It may sound stupid to say, but… I’m surprised by how easy they make it all look,” Harry mumbled, ruffling his hair sheepishly while looking away._

_“What do you mean by that, Harry?” his Mind Healer probed, not unkindly._

_“Well it’s just… this might not make any sense but. Because I’ve never seen it before, like certainly not living under the Dursley’s, and not really during my time at Hogwarts, although I was a bit distracted then, because of, you know, things…”_

_His Mind Healer nodded encouragingly._

_“Well… I just didn’t realize you could_ have _that.” Harry looked at his Mind Healer, searching desperately for her to chime in and save him from this mortifying confession._

_“Yes Harry, I understand what you mean, and I don’t think that’s stupid at all. I think that’s actually very common for a lot of people, even other clients I’ve worked with. Because it’s generally not something you’re raised with, or see on TV, or often times in public, it can be hard to imagine that gay people can lead happy and easy lives, outside the cultural ‘norm’. It can be hard to picture that two men, or two women, can be perfectly happy together in a committed relationship for many years, or even for life. That they can have a home together, and successful careers, and even adopt and raise children. It can be strange to encounter this fact for the first time. I certainly don’t think it’s an abnormal response to be having, when surrounded by out gay people for the first time in your life,” his Mind Healer explained. Harry felt relieved._

_“Oh. Okay. Cool. I mean, I’m glad that doesn’t make me a bad person,” Harry said, mostly to himself while scratching his cheek._

_“Why would that make you a bad person? We live in a society dictated by certain ‘rules’ that aren’t really rules at all. We’re brought up to believe those rules are natural and unbreakable, and it can be very unsettling to be confronted with the fact that those rules are very wrong. And, without even realizing it, we’ve often internalized stuff we haven’t even consciously noticed—that, for example, gay people should be unhappy or unable to have committed relationships, because these are often messages spread insidiously throughout our lives. But what’s important, Harry, is to forgive yourself for being surprised by these things, or for struggling to unlearn them. There is nothing more human, in my opinion, than learning more about yourself and the world around you, and adjusting how you feel about each of them accordingly,” his Mind Healer finished._

Harry was shaken from his thoughts from last Wednesday by the buzzer for his apartment sounding. Rather than allow Malfoy up, Harry grabbed his coat and energetically bounded down the stairs. He shocked Malfoy when he burst through the door, grabbing him and spinning him around.

“Wow, hey there! Someone’s excited,” Malfoy said, laughing. Harry slowed to a stop as his face turned bright red, embarrassed by his anticipation. He’d had a lot more energy lately, and it felt good to exercise it.

“Understandable, considering the ‘duck breast with pomegranate citrus-glaze’ waiting for us on the other side,” Malfoy joked. Harry coughed out a laugh.

“I’m impressed you even remembered that,” Harry said, seriously.

“Nah, don’t be. I have a bet going over who can manage to fit it into conversation the most times throughout the evening,” Malfoy replied. This time, Harry doubled over with laughter.

“Can I get in on this? I want to place my bet,” Harry crowed gleefully.

“But of course! Who should I put you down for? Can I rely on your vote, oh good citizen of the public?” Malfoy had put on the voice of a game show announcer. Harry refused to let it remind him of summers at the Dursley’s.

“Hmm… no. I think I’ll put my money on Dean,” Harry said slyly. Malfoy gasped, placing a hand over his heart.

“I’m shocked! What an utter betrayal. And on Dean, as well! A bold choice. I’ll put you down, but I’ve got to warn you, you’ll be losing money tonight,” Malfoy dramatically responded, a twinkle in his eye.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Malfoy. Now, are we going to get going, or what? No offense to you but it’s freezing out here,” Harry complained, rubbing his hands together.

“Why of course Harry, why didn’t you say so? I never would’ve noticed the cold without your brilliant observation skills,” Malfoy said sarcastically while rolling his eyes. “Care to do the honours?”

Harry realized that it was the first time it would be him apparating the pair. He shored himself up, then boldly wrapped his arm around Malfoy’s waist, pulling their bodies together. In the blink of an eye, Malfoy’s warmth seeping into his side, they were off.

***

The Oliver-Percy residence was warm and inviting, filled with the sweet smell of their meal cooking. The house was decorated with small framed moving photographs of the couple together, nauseatingly sweet, on various occasions. Harry’s eye caught on one, hanging framed on the wall in the middle of the living room, easily the focal point of the room. It was clearly of Oliver proposing to Percy, and then jumping up, pulling Percy into his arms and holding him tight.

“I took that one,” Dean told him, coming up behind him. “It’s probably one of my proudest accomplishments, managing to capture in a magical photo the moment Percy said yes. A moment too soon or too delayed and… we wouldn’t be standing witness to this life-altering moment,” Dean finished reverently.

Harry couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the photo, mesmerized by it. Dean was right, it was stunning.

“Yeah, yeah, Dean, you show off! We get it, you’re a wonder amongst men, et cetera, et cetera,” Malfoy snarked jokingly. Harry’s eyes broke from the photo, the moment lost.

“Ey, shut up Malfoy! That’s the love of my life you’re talking to,” Seamus amiably called from the kitchen. Malfoy flipped him the bird. Seamus just laughed in response.

The family dinner was in full swing. Seamus and Percy were in the kitchen finishing up the meal (although it was mostly Percy cooking, and slapping Seamus’ hand each time he tried to sneak food from the finished dishes lying under warming charms). Oliver and Malfoy looked to have finished setting the table, and were pouring themselves wine to come join Harry and Dean in the living room. Dean sat down on one of the sofas, and Harry followed his lead. Malfoy and Oliver took the other, a bright white two-seater.

“If you spill that red wine on my couch, Draco, I will send you a howler every single day for the rest of your life!” Percy threatened from the kitchen.

“We’re wizards,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like we can’t clean it.” Everyone laughed at this, even Oliver, who struggled to keep it in while looking apologetically at his fiancé. Percy just humphed in response. “But yes, Percy, I’ll try my best,” Malfoy said kindly, giving him a warm smile. Percy gave a slight smile back.

“It’s a lovely place you’ve got here, Oliver,” Harry told him, earnestly. That a home could be so warm… he was reminded of the Burrow, just with significantly less clutter.

“Why thank you Harry,” Oliver said. “It took us a long time to decide on the colour palate—”

“Oh here he goes, you’ve got him started now, Harry,” Malfoy cut in. At Oliver’s indignant look, Dean jumped in.

“Yeah, sorry mate… I’m an artist, and even I’m over hearing about how ‘pearly white was just _too white_ you know? Eggshell was a much better fit for us as a couple, just really summed up our _essence_ …” As Dean went on, Malfoy laughed harder and harder.

“Okay, okay! You’ve made your point,” Oliver acquiesced. Harry couldn’t help but smile himself. He paused, unsure if he should say what was resting on the tip of his tongue. He found himself unable to hold back.

“It—it reminds me a lot of the Burrow actually. Not the look, of course, just. The feel,” Harry rushed to say.

A metal spoon dropped in the kitchen.

Oliver glanced nervously towards the noise. Harry was filled with regret and shame for having opened his mouth. A soft call of _I’m okay!_ echoed from the kitchen, and Oliver visibly relaxed. The tension seemed to dissipate.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend,” Harry said softly.

“Oh, don’t even worry about it Harry. You’re right, we tried to capture that kind of environment in our home. One filled with love, and warmth, and family. Loud and bustling. But at the same time, our own. Safe, for everyone,” Oliver reassured him, eyes flicking towards the kitchen at the very end.

“It’s a good thing to base a home around,” Malfoy said softly, reaching out to pat Oliver’s hand. His eyes seemed wet. Harry remembered what Hermione had said to him, on the phone not to long ago. _I feel like I have a whole new understanding of Malfoy_. Harry felt a bit like that too. He wondered what it was like, being raised in that house, with Lucius. What it was like, post-war, when Malfoy was dealing with the fact that he was gay. He stopped at that. _When had Malfoy even realized? I’ve never asked._

“How did you and Percy get together?” Harry asked. He seemed to be very chatty this evening. Inquisitive. He felt a bit like his old self.

Malfoy snorted into his drink. “One too many wet dreams, probably.”

Oliver glared at him. Turning back to Harry, he said, “No, actually, it’s kind of a long story.” Malfoy settled deeper into the cushions.

“Back at Hogwarts, we were in the same dormitory, of course. But what you might not know is that we were actually very good friends. Here I was, quidditch captain, and him first prefect then head boy, but against all odds we became very close. I knew I was gay pretty early on, but I refused to admit to myself that I had developed quite a bad unrequited crush on my best friend. I was fiercely jealous of Penelope— for the short time that lasted, of course. I let myself believe it was because she was stealing my best friend away…” Oliver shook his head at the naivety of his former self, chuckling.

“Then, of course, we left Hogwarts, and Percy started becoming more and more… estranged from his parents. He started working for the minister, and—he moved in with me. I didn’t agree with what Percy was doing then, but that didn’t matter. What mattered to me was my best friend. Supporting him, and caring for him, while providing him a safe place to come home to at the end of each day. I refused to turn my back on him. I knew, in my heart, what kind of person he was. Intelligent, kind, caring—beneath it all, under the bravado and years of all this shit his family and society put him through… that’s the kind of man he was. The kind of man I fell in love with. And that’s what happened, Harry, I fell in love.

And then we just—fell into it. We were already living together, and we were always so close. He’d come home from work and I’d cook him dinner, he’d come to my games to support me… and suddenly we were just, dating.” Oliver shrugged.

“We didn’t talk about it. I think maybe we thought if we acknowledged it the magic would be broken and one of us would call an end to the whole thing. So we went on dating, easy as breathing after living together and being friends for so long.

Then the Indecency Act passed, and Percy came home, and I’ll never forget that night. We sat together on the bed, talking and in tears, for hours, so stressed and fucking terrified we’d be discovered.” At Harry’s confused look, Oliver paused in his tale.

“The Indecency Act stated that acts of homosexuality were considered indecent and therefore would result in imprisonment and punishment up to and including death,” Oliver explained. Harry was horrified.

“Not to mention, in general, it was dangerous to be gay at that time. Especially once the war fully broke out. So many hunted down and killed. As bad if not worse than being found or registered a muggle-born,” Dean added somberly.

“Gays can’t produce pureblood heirs. Not even considering their belief that being gay was ‘impure’,” Malfoy muttered bitterly, looking down at his hands.

“So, we lived in fear. Of being found out, or discovered. At this point Percy, of course, knew his mistake, and was filled with regret and shame, but—it was too dangerous for him to leave the ministry. Leaving would be an admission of guilt, that he was on the _other side_ , and might even expose us as a couple. So he stayed. Each day was torture, for us both. He couldn’t even visit his father when he was in hospital—it felt like too big of a risk. It still bothers him, to this day.

Then the war ended, and I came out to my parents. They were overwhelmingly supportive. I feel very lucky. I introduced Percy to them, and they were just as enamored with him as I was. We got this townhouse together, I proposed to him, and here we are,” Oliver finished with a smile.

“When I came out to me mam after the war, she threw me out. The conservative old cow,” Seamus threw in with a scowl. Dean hugged him close. Harry remembered the fact that it was Seamus’ mother that had doubted Harry’s claim of Voldemort’s return, leading to the schism between the two.

“Seamus and I got together just before I went on the run. It’s true what we said before, nothing like the imminent threat of death or torture to inspire a love confession,” Dean said with a laugh, even as his arm tightened even more around Seamus.

“When I realized I couldn’t prove my half-blood status, and would have to go on the run, I went to Seamus that night. The night I left. It felt like now or never, you know? Everything I worried about, about ruining our friendship or whatever, just didn’t seem important anymore. I might never get to see him again. I wanted him to know that I loved him,” Dean explained, voice wistful as he recounted the memory.

“Yeah, the romantic git transfigured a rose out of my toothbrush. Never did quite get that back…” Seamus ribbed, nudging Dean in the stomach with his elbow.

“Hey, you weren’t complaining that night,” Dean quipped back, wiggling his eyebrows. Seamus actually blushed at that.

“Enough of this. Are we going to eat or what?” Malfoy drawled. Seamus snapped to attention.

“Ah yes, the duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze awaits!” Seamus declared, raising his fist into the air triumphantly.

“Yes, we’d hate to let the duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze go cold,” Dean said earnestly. Harry couldn’t help but giggle, remembering the bet. He turned and met Malfoy’s eyes, seeing him quietly smiling at the sound. He stood up and walked over to stand in front of Harry, holding out his hand to help drag him up from the couch. With an over-exaggerated moan, Harry propelled himself up, back curved. It was only noticing Malfoy’s flushed face and wide eyes afterwards that he realized how that must have looked. Harry broke eye contact, mumbling about moving into the dining room. He dropped Malfoy’s hand and stepped away.

***

Sitting around the table in the glow of the warm golden light of the candelabra wall sconces and small decorative chandelier, Harry was again struck by how _homey_ their residence truly was. He felt envious, of so much. The home and life they had created, the chosen family they had were a part of, the love that they shared… Harry wanted that. It didn’t escape his notice that it was perhaps the first time since the war ended that Harry allowed himself to _want_ good things for his life, without feeling guilty for even having life to begin with. He felt a small part of his soul start to heal over.

“No need to stand on formality. Please, sit! There’s plenty of duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze to go around! The duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze should be cooked to perfection, goodness knows I spent long enough on it…” Percy announced, standing proudly at the head of the table, before taking his seat. A large smile spread across his face. Harry thought it might be the happiest and most relaxed he had ever seen Percy. He seemed like an entirely different person from the Percy Weasley he had known back in school, and had had the misfortune of encountering after.

Suddenly, there was warm breath at his ear, making Harry give an involuntary shiver. “Percy’s making a strong lead on the bet. Maybe you should’ve placed your money on him instead of Dean,” Malfoy muttered, laughter in his voice.

Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Percy’s in on the bet as well?!” He whispered back. Malfoy looked back at him, confused.

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t he be?”

Looking at Malfoy’s genuinely perplexed expression, Harry realized that truly was the difference between this home and the Burrow. While at first glance, it had everything good and pure that the Burrow had to offer, with its clamorous voices, warm lighting, and familial aura, something that Oliver said earlier stuck in his mind: _safe, for everyone_. If this were the Burrow, Percy would be completely unaware of the bet going on around him. The purpose would be to mock and ridicule him, to laugh _at_ his overly formal and intellectual nature. But this… this bet wasn’t mean, or malicious. It was a continuation of a shared joke from several weeks ago, at the bar. They had gently poked fun at his dinner choice, but Harry realized now it was in the way one teases someone lovingly, to say _I see you, for all that you are, and love you for it_. Once the teasing ended, Percy was welcomed into the joke with open arms, to share it with them too. To be able to respond with _yes, this is who I am, and I’m learning to fall in love with it too_. He wasn’t the butt of every joke, the outcast, and the punchline for every member of his family. No, here he was safe to be himself. Because he knew that these people around him, his _family_ , didn’t see him as a punchline. They saw him as a brother, a fiancé, and a beloved friend. They saw him as a _person_ , who was a beloved, respected, and irreplaceable member of their family.

Recognition passed over Malfoy’s eyes, and his mouth went tight, before they both turned back to their meals.

“This is truly superb duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze, Percy,” Seamus piped up, happily munching on his meal.

“I’m surprised you can even enjoy my duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze, considering how much you ate in the kitchen before when you were ‘helping’ me,” Percy spoke dryly. Everybody laughed, and Dean ruffled Seamus’ hair. Seamus looked embarrassed for a moment, before shrugging it off as if to say, _yeah, you’re right, but whatcha gonna do?_

As the laughter died down, Percy raised his voice once again, to say, “But you’re right, this duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze really did turn out quite well. I’ll have to add the duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze recipe to my collection.”

“Aww man, Perce! Why you gotta be so good at everything,” Seamus whined. Percy just looked smug, while Oliver beamed at him from across the table. Percy was definitely set up to win the bet.

“My love, don’t despair quite yet. The night isn’t over, and neither is my serving of duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze. I may need to get a second helping of the duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze. Although I have to admit, my duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze is a bit dry,” Dean concluded, sniffing comically while eyeing Percy for his reaction.

“Oh, the duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze is a bit dry, is it? Well I’d like to see you do a duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze half as good as this one! The recipe for duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze isn’t exactly an easy one to follow. I think you should be thanking me for my hard work in preparing this wonderous meal of duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze for you tonight,” Percy mock-fought back. Harry’s eyes jumped between the men as if he was watching a ping pong match.

“Now guys, are we really going to waste our evening arguing over duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze? My duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze certainly was not dry, so I’ve got to disagree with your review of Percy’s duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze there, Dean. I don’t think I could personally make a duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze superior to this one, although you all know I do love to cook, and a challenging recipe like this one for some duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze could be an excellent one to tackle some Saturday. Although I’m not always in the mood for duck, so making duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze I could reach an unexpected hurdle of not being inclined to dine on my creation. Hmm, I wonder if a local food kitchen accepts donations like duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze? Duck breast in pomegranate-citrus glaze would be much better served going to a child in need than to my belly, certainly,” Malfoy jumped in. Seamus and Dean’s mouths dropped open in Malfoy’s direction, as Percy merely looked annoyed that his lead might have been overtaken.

“ENOUGH!” Oliver bellowed. “IF I HEAR DUCK BREAST IN POMEGRANATE-CITRUS GLAZE ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND!”

“Oh come on Oliver, you’re going to need to do a lot better than that if you want to try and compete this late in the game,” Seamus responded, not perturbed by Oliver’s outburst in the slightest.

“Okay, folks, but we really should call it. I know it’s between Percy and Malfoy for sure, was anyone keeping count?” Dean looked around the room at the gathered faces, searching for a score-keeper amongst them.

When nobody stepped forward, Malfoy groaned. “Come on guys, when will we ever learn! At this rate nobody will ever win a bet. We do this every time,” Malfoy complained, leaning back in his chair and running a hand down his face.

“Not to fear, lads, as a skilled professional Quidditch Keeper of many years, I am excellent at keeping score in my mind,” Oliver finally cut in, smiling. “Seamus had two, Dean had four, and it was very close, but Percy won with nine mentions, while Draco only managed eight. Although special recognition has to go to Draco for accomplishing his second place title the most _irritating way_ possible, by somehow managing to squish all his eight mentions into one lengthy monologue. So thanks for that, prat,” Oliver said, annoyance on his face. Malfoy just looked smug in the face of the playful criticism. Percy cleared his throat.

“Ahem! I think we’re all missing an important fact here! I won the bet! It’s time for everyone to pay up!” Percy gleefully demanded. Murmured complaints and curses were heard across the room as each wizard reached for their coin purse to pay their dues to the self-satisfied victor. Oliver stood up and walked around the table to deposit his money, before leaning down to give Percy a rather enthusiastic kiss which Percy met wholeheartedly. Seamus gave a wolf-whistle. Harry couldn’t look away. As Oliver pulled back, both hands holding Percy’s face, he gently ran his thumbs across Percy’s cheeks, who serenely blinked his eyes in response. Oliver leaned forward to quietly intone _I love you_ , before kissing Percy on the nose and then releasing him to return to his seat. Harry felt oddly emotional, seeing them and also sitting in this warm room with these unlikely people, who made him feel more at home and like _himself_ than he’d felt in a very, very, long time, if ever.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” Oliver proclaimed loudly, successfully quieting the group. “To the newest member of our family: Harry. We are so glad to have you here with us tonight, and hopefully for many more nights to come. You are a wonderful and important addition to this family, and I hope you would like to be a part of us as much as we would be honoured and so thankful to have you. To Harry!”

_To Harry!_ chorused around the small room, and Harry found himself tearing up at his words. A single tear escaped his eye and he hastily wiped it away with his hand. Malfoy’s hand reached out to grasp his under the table. Malfoy always seemed to be so in-tune with Harry’s emotions. He was always so, so caring, and kind, and empathetic.

Harry cleared his throat several times before trying to speak. “I’m honoured to be part of your family,” Harry managed, voice clearly emotional and slightly wobbly. Everyone gave a cheer, and Malfoy’s hand gave Harry’s a squeeze underneath the table as he turned to give him a smile, _that smile!_ once more.

***

After dinner, they retired to the living room, where they sat and talked with re-filled wine glasses for another two hours. It was past 11pm, and as night truly settled in, conversation became more intimate, as it tends to do.

“Harry, I heard you discussing my and Oliver’s story earlier. And I’ve decided… I’d like to tell you why my family doesn’t know I’m gay,” Percy said, somberly.

“Love, you don’t have to,” Oliver immediately rushed to say, placing his hand over Percy’s clenched one on his knee.

“No, I want to. If I’m going to ask Harry to lie to his best friend, Ron—” Percy’s voice choked slightly on his brother’s name, “after everything that’s happened with them, I’d like him to know why.”

Silence. It drew on for several long minutes. The only thing that could be heard was Percy’s unsteady breathing as he stared at the floor, both fists clenched, and the slight clink of Seamus chugging the rest of his wine glass. In that moment Harry wished he still drank, just so he could help ease his stomach which felt tied up in knots.

“I’m not sure if this will make sense to you, Harry, but I’d like to try to explain it as best I can. You know my family, you know what wonderful—” once again, Percy’s voice broke, “people they are, people who are loyal and steadfast in their convictions, who take the path of Good even when it’s not easy, and who would take family over money and prestige any day. That is how you’ve known my family, and all those things are true. I don’t want you to lose sight of that as I try to explain why things were the way they were, and why things are the way they are now,” Percy resolved, eyes still focused on the floor in front of him. Oliver’s hand reached up to softly rub Percy’s back. Percy closed his eyes and swallowed, before continuing. Harry was almost glad to see Percy close them, just to be free of the unbearable sadness haunting behind his irises.

“Growing up, you know I had two older brothers, Bill and Charlie. And both were… definitely manly-man types. All about getting down in the dirt, rough-and-tumble, playing sports and manual labour. I wasn’t… like them. You’ll soon see that becomes a theme, in this story,” Percy allowed a wicked smile to cut across his face, eyes still closed. It looked wrong there, and clearly masked a significant amount of pain.

“I wasn’t like my older brothers, that I looked up to so much. I didn’t like getting dirty, and I vastly preferred reading a good book or learning something new than picking up a broom and joining my brothers for a makeshift game of quidditch. I quickly learnt this was a bad, bad thing.” Percy paused to take a deep breath, trembling for a moment before continuing. “This is one of the parts where I’d like you to remember what I said at the beginning, about who my family is. The type of people they are. Because I don’t want you to lose that vision of them, Harry. Not because of me. Not when they mean so much to you. They mean that much to me too.” Percy opened his eyes, making direct eye contact for the next part of his story.

“The name-calling started early on, which wasn’t so bad, at first. Being called _prissy_ and _girly_ and _lady_ wasn’t hurtful, but of course being misgendered stung. But soon, the names only became a stepping stone for much worse. I flinched when they called me priss, because that usually ended with Bill punching me or hitting me. Charlie, not so much… he followed Bill around like a lost puppy, silent in the face of my torment. But his silence hurt me too. My parents were none the wiser, really, until much, much later. They didn’t figure it out until it got really bad, and my brothers were heckling me about not helping them de-gnome the garden with stuff like _Oh, Princess Percy doesn’t want to chip her pretty nails, or should I say Prissy Percy, or Pussy Percy…_ on and on they went. And then Bill got up and started to wail on me again, mostly angry because I was trying to get out of doing chores and leaving them with all the hard work. That was where the anger came from. But his anger in combination with those words had a lasting impact he could never have known at the time. Anyway, my dad saw it happening and ran outside and pulled Bill off me, got him to apologize, and I had a black eye.

But when Bill explained what had happened, leaving in those slurs and comments about me haphazardly throughout his angry tirade, my dad didn’t tell him off, or stop him, or correct him. And I started to understand that what Bill said, even though it hurt me, was true. I was those things, and those things were clearly very bad if my dad was agreeing with Bill about them. If my dad wasn’t telling him off or disagreeing, it really had to be something wrong, unnatural, and truly awful. Unfortunately, this harmful thinking was only reinforced when my dad pulled me aside later to talk to me about ‘the incident’. He said to me that I was growing up now, learning how to be a big man, and that there were certain things a man was supposed to do, and a way he was supposed to act. It was the classics, _tough, strong, brave, always ready for a fight, can hold his own…_ my dad wasn’t one to advocate me fighting, but you’ve got to remember he’s a veteran of the first wizarding war, and now the second, and a member of the Order. Looking back now, I can tell he was just trying to prepare me for the war that he could see was up ahead. Whether he could feel it, or he was scarred by what had already happened, I’m not sure. But I learnt from then on that a lot was wrong with me. I was too skinny and wiry—not physically strong like my older brothers Bill and Charlie. I wasn’t always ready for a fight, because I couldn’t fight. I didn’t have that adrenaline coursing through my veins, I just… wasn’t that type of person. I wasn’t the stereotypical, society prescribed, _Male_. Everything about me was wrong—too feminine, too small, too gay—and that’s when that started too.” Everybody in the room was sat frozen and silent, hanging on Percy’s every word. It was like the air had been sucked from the room, and all there was with them was Percy’s painful and heart-wrenching story, hardly even begun.

Bitterness once again took over his face. “Turns out, saying ‘priss’ and ‘lady’ and ‘bitch’ and all that good stuff wasn’t enough for them once we got older. It was like they could smell it on me—they started calling me gay. Meant in a bad way, obviously. And then gay became… the other ‘f’ word, I won’t use it, I’m sorry. It was casual phrases, like _shut up Percy, you’re such a f—_ and _ugh Percy I can’t believe you’re this excited about being a prefect, you’re so fucking gay._ I became intensely paranoid about everything about myself—the way I walked, the way I talked, the way I dressed, my mannerisms like talking with my hands or letting my wrist hang limp, everything. Hardly a day went by that I wasn’t obsessing over every second of my day spent with my family. And even then, it still wasn’t enough. Because then the twins—” Percy got choked up again, and it took him longer to recover this time. Everyone in the circle got misty-eyed or choked up as well, remembering Fred.

“Everyone else in the family came along, and even though I was now an older brother, I was still living under constant scrutiny by my entire family. They’d exploit every weakness, capitalize on every insecurity to make a joke at my expense. I guess it’s human nature, to find the odd man out and antagonize them,” Percy tried to explain, sadly. Oliver made a soft noise of disagreement. Now it was Percy rubbing Oliver’s hand in response.

“I could hardly breathe, at the Burrow. I hated summers. I began to hate everything that my family stood for, out of frustration that my attempts to fit myself into that mold were unsuccessful and impossible, or grief and anger over the fact that I had to live that way in my own home. I couldn’t be comfortable with myself. I couldn’t even entertain the idea that I was gay, I was too consumed by all the reasons why that was unnatural and wrong, especially in my family. It was something that I had to prevent myself from being, at all costs. So looking back, I did everything in my power to deny my nature, and repress and hate the fact that I was gay, in a vain attempt to please my family. To finally feel enough for them, so they’d be proud of me and accept me as one of their own. An equal, a brother, and a son— not a freak.

I started to crave everything opposite them, in rebellion. Like rule-following, in the place of pranks. Cleanliness, in the place of clutter. And finally… pursuing that money and prestige, over family. Like I just mentioned, being the reverse of my family. Some part of me became blackened and rotten by my self-loathing but also my pain and anger towards my family and the way they had treated me.

I got my chance! I got to work at the Ministry. It felt like all my dreams were coming true. What a fool I was,” Percy shook his head, scoffing. Oliver gave out a quiet _No, honey. Never, love._ He was still gently rubbing his fiancé’s back. Percy gave a watery smile at him. He had begun to silently cry.

Percy sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes, shoring himself up to continue. “Anyway, you know this next part. Worked for the Ministry, still living at home for a long while, and then everything went to shit with dad. I don’t want to rehash that argument, but the same kind of themes as before—his comments about why I got my position made me feel worthless, and like he had no pride or faith in me. I lashed out and said the cruelest, most hateful things… then I left, for London. And moved in with Oliver, which ended up being one of the best things to ever happen to me in my life,” Percy said, his eyes lighting up and a smile blessing his face at the mention.

“We fell in love. Or we always were, underneath. I know Oliver was. It’s hard for me to pick out when and where I fell in love with him, because of how hard I worked to repress and suppress it all for so long. I can’t even tell you when I first figured out I was gay. It’s all too wrapped up in everything else, mentally, that it feels impossible to parse out what was general fear from my family and what was fear based on knowing a fundamental truth about myself.

Then, everything went to shit with the Ministry, and just like Oliver said, we lived in constant fear. This time, not from my family, but from everyone and everything. The only safe place in the world was inside the walls of our apartment, with each other. Our own little bubble. Dad got attacked, and I couldn’t visit. I couldn’t bear to even write back, because I didn’t know how to explain why I couldn’t come. So much was mixed up in the fact that I was gay and in love with Oliver. I couldn’t bear to break that bubble, and I was terrified of the consequences of that knowledge getting out. If I communicated with my family, that would just increase attention and heighten suspicion towards me and my life. Oliver was my family and my life, then. He had stood by me when no one else would. He had faith in me, he was proud of me, and he loved me. So he came first. And I stand by that decision today. Even if the consequences of that decision were extremely painful.

Mum sent me a Christmas jumper that year, and I mailed it back. Again, it was partly about refusing contact with known affiliates of you and the resistance, to avoid suspicion. But… I’ll admit that the majority of that gesture had nothing to do with any of that at all—It made me so, so angry and later devastated to receive that jumper. Because after everything they had done to me, and said to me, and treated me… everything in their power to prove to me I wasn’t one of them and never _could_ be… they sent me a gesture to show I was a part of their family. It felt like a kick to the stomach.

Then, the Battle happened, and… Fred died,” Percy spoke through his tears, fully crying now.

“And for a moment, everything with my family faded away. I released all my anger, hurt, and pain. I released my fear. None of that mattered. And things were good. But… soon, those feelings returned. Because I’m sorry, but I can’t forget. Maybe that makes me a bad person, and just as much of a bastard as they believe I am, but… it’s the truth. None of what they said or did stops being true because the war is over. And those beliefs still exist, in their hearts, unchallenged. They may respond to my sexuality and relationship with love and understanding, but with that would also come ignorance and their cruel commentary. More snide jabs at my expense. Or maybe, no understanding at all. They might even view it as another form of rebellion, similar to my work for the Ministry during the war,” Percy continued, his tears drying up as his voice became more fortified and confident.

“And finally… and this is very, _very_ , important Harry, so I want you to pay attention,” Percy said seriously, leaning forward towards Harry. “I haven’t told them because, simply, I don’t have to. I don’t owe _anyone_ in my life a coming out. If I’m going to come out, it’ll be because I _want_ to, and I feel safe to do so. Not because I feel guilty, or like I owe someone, or because I feel pressured. My sexuality isn’t about anyone else, it’s about me, and now my partner.”

“And… Oliver doesn’t mind being out while you’re closeted? I’m sorry if that’s a rude question,” Harry carefully asked. His mind was racing with all he had heard that evening.

“No, it’s okay, Harry. I’m glad you asked, because I think that’s important too. No, of course not, I don’t mind at all. It takes a pretty shitty person to try and pressure their significant other to come out of the closet to anyone. Support them? Absolutely. Encourage them? Sure. But being in a healthy relationship means respecting your partner’s feelings and their boundaries. And whether Percy is out or not isn’t up to me, it’s up to him. It makes no impact on our relationship if his parents don’t know that he’s gay. I’ll still love him, and he’ll still love me, and that’s all that matters,” Oliver concluded kindly.

“Yeah, I mean I was kinda forced out of the closet, because of circumstances. After the war, when Seamus came out to his mum and she kicked him out, he came to live with me and my family, so they had to find out. My mum and stepdad weren’t thrilled, but they cared more about Seamus’ situation than our relationship, so parental instincts won out. Even though I don’t regret that it happened because of all the good that came from it, I do still sometimes wish I’d had the chance to come out to them on my own terms. It sucks that power was taken away from me,” Dean added.

“Wait—after the war? Seamus’ parents kicked him out _after_ the war?!” Harry suddenly realized.

“Yeah… me mam isn’t religious, the whole magic thing kinda ruins that, but… she was raised in a very, very strong Irish Catholic community. So she grew up hearing that shite her whole life, and because she has no experience with it, believing it. I thought after everything with the war, it would make her more open to the idea of her son being gay, because it would seem less important. Turns out I was wrong. To her, there are some things worse than death,” Seamus rattled out, his cheerful and optimistic tone sounding incongruous to the dark words he was imparting. Looking around the room, he saw the faces of the assembled bunch reflecting those feelings of pain and despair at what Seamus had shared. _Empathy_ , he realized. _It could’ve been any one of them_. Dean leaned over to whisper in his ear comfortingly, given him intermittent kisses on the cheek. The rest averted their eyes from the pair to avoid making Seamus feel uncomfortable about his emotional confession.

“Well, I for one am going into the kitchen to get some more of that cheesecake,” Malfoy loudly announced, standing with purpose.

“Ughhh no… how is it possible you’re still hungry? I feel like I might explode,” Oliver moaned, sliding down on the couch while holding his stomach.

“I told you not to eat so much!” Percy chastised. But when Oliver looked up at him with a pout, Percy leaned over to peck him on the lips.

“Hopeless, the lot of you,” Malfoy threw over his shoulder as he rolled his eyes, already striding towards the kitchen.

It was only much later that Harry realized the only one in the group who hadn’t shared was Malfoy.

***

“So how was family dinner?” his Mind Healer asked pleasantly.

“I’m not sure… how to describe it,” Harry answered slowly. His mind was still reeling from all he had heard and discovered that evening, and all the feelings it had given him.

“That’s okay, just tell me whatever words immediately come to mind,” she said encouragingly.

“Those might be the most courageous men I’ve ever met,” Harry said, seriously.

“I must admit I’m surprised that those are the words you’ve chosen,” his Mind Healer replied. “What makes you say that, Harry?”

Harry shared what he had learnt about Percy, Oliver, Seamus, and Dean that evening. He especially focused on Percy’s story, which he couldn’t seem to shake from his mind since Saturday night.

“After everything that’s happened, having the strength to push through all that, and be so unashamedly yourself, while creating a good, safe life for yourself… that’s bravery. At least, in my opinion,” Harry summarized. He looked at her defensively, as if expecting her to challenge his claim.

“I think that sounds like bravery to me too, Harry. But I’d also like to point out, after hearing everything, you seem especially affected by Mr. Weasley’s story about his sexuality. I’d like to dig into that a little deeper,” his Mind Healer prodded.

“Well… yeah. Because that’s my best mate’s family, and a family that for a long time was the closest thing I had to one. More often than not, they were the family figures in my life. I think they were the first example of a happy family I’d ever met,” Harry answered, again on the defensive.

“While that’s all true, I think it’s a bit more than that, right?” she questioned, looking to Harry as if she saw right through him. He felt very exposed… which wasn’t an uncommon experience in his sessions, when things were hitting a little too close to the bone. But, he reminded himself, those were also the times he made the most impactful strides towards his recovery.

Harry looked down, playing with his hands, before carefully answering. “Yeah… I felt like I could relate to him. Like I understood where he was coming from,” Harry tried to explain, turning the words over in his head.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I just mean. Living with the Dursley’s,” Harry forced out, barely getting the words past his tongue.

His Mind Healer just sat patiently, looking to him to elaborate further, whenever he was ready. When it became clear Harry wasn’t going to continue on his own, she gently nudged him forward. “Things were certainly very difficult for you, living with the Dursley’s. They didn’t treat you with the kind of respect or love that Percy was talking about. It was a painful experience for you.”

Harry kept his eyes lowered as he barely moved his head in a nod.

“But it’s more than that,” Harry mumbled, so quietly that his Mind Healer almost missed the fact that he had spoken at all.

“More than that how?” she said, ever so carefully. Harry huffed in frustration, snapping his eyes up to look her dead in the eyes, a quiet, humming rage emanating from his own. He threw his hands up in the air.

“The stuff! Things he said! About the comments his family made, about him. It sounded familiar, that’s all,” Harry exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. But his Mind Healer saw it for what it was: a protective gesture.

“The Dursley’s also had very strong ideas about what masculinity was supposed to look like. And they also knew how to use their words to hurt you and pull down your self-worth at every opportunity,” she contributed.

“Yes. Like all the words Percy mentioned… they called me those things too,” Harry said through clenched teeth, arms still wrapped around himself.

“Including gay?”

Harry’s face flushed and he squinted his eyes closed, ashamed, while nodding in assent. The fight seemed to leave him, but his body remained tense.

“And also f—”

“Please don’t,” Harry begged, voice trembling.

“I’m sorry Harry, I won’t,” his Mind Healer apologized. They sat in silence for several moments.

“But it’s also what Percy said, about the name-calling being something he could handle. It was the other stuff, the—beatings, the starvation, being locked inside…” Harry added. They weren’t talking about Percy any longer.

“Yeah, I can imagine how hard that must be to handle, for anyone. Especially alone,” she intoned, face sorrowful. They sat in silence again.

“I’ve been through war, why does this stupid shit still affect me?” Harry quietly questioned, breaking any pretense he was talking about anyone else’s trauma beside his own. She gave him a small smile in return.

“Because, Harry… it doesn’t matter when trauma happens, or whether some may consider some experiences to be ‘worse’ than others. Trauma simply _is_ , without comparing itself to others or necessarily diminishing in the face of something worse. Something traumatic has still happened, even if worse things have come down the line. And earlier, or ‘smaller’, if you can call it that, traumas don’t disappear as more occur. It’s hard, and unfair, and you have every right to feel angry or upset that you were placed in a position to experience all these things, in the service of other people. Because you are still a _person_ , Harry, savior or not. People get hurt, and abused, and traumatized. That doesn’t make you lesser, or weaker. Because as you said, in your own words, these are _some of the most courageous people you’ve ever met_. In relating to Percy, I’m sorry to say, you’re also admitting that you are one of the most courageous people you’ve ever met too,” his Mind Healer concluded.

Harry’s face twisted at that, and he went to protest, but settled instead on: “And that doesn’t make me a bad person? Pompous, or arrogant, to think I’m courageous? Or anywhere close to being as brave as those men?”

“It’s okay to like yourself Harry, or dare I say it, love yourself. I can promise you, you are in no danger of having an inflated self-image. Having any kind of positive image of yourself at all at this point is not only a good and healthy thing, it’s also something to be celebrated. I’m proud of you Harry, and how far you’ve come since we’ve started these sessions,” she said, warmly.

“I—can I say this? I’m proud of myself too,” Harry tentatively replied. She could only bring herself to smile and nod in response, to prevent her emotions for overtaking her.

***

“I think I need a job,” Harry said to Hermione, using his shoulder to hold the phone to one ear while trying to pick up the dirty laundry strewn across his room.

The Friday night meet-ups at the bars continued, as did monthly family dinners. But as Harry got more and more comfortable going out around Brighton, he got more and more restless at home. The long weeks between Friday nights became agonizingly boring, but with the added benefit that Harry’s new found thirst for activity led him to begin cleaning up his apartment. He refused to use magic to do it, so the one task he had found himself to do would last longer. Which is how he found himself here, talking on the phone to Hermione while throwing dirty socks into a near-overflowing laundry basket.

“Oh, that’s great Harry! I’ve got plenty of contacts at the Ministry—but of course you don’t need those contacts, being _Harry Potter_ and all, but I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt, and I know the Aurors would still love to have you if you’re interested—”

“HERMIONE!” Harry yelled to cut her off. He cleared his throat a little before continuing more calmly. “Sorry, I’m just… not looking for that kind of job. At least not yet,” he rushed to reassure her, though the words felt acidic on his tongue. He couldn’t help feeling as if he had just lied to her. His home was Brighton. The thought of returning to London, and the thick of the wizarding world… he let out an involuntary shudder.

“Oh. Okay. I’m sorry Harry. I didn’t mean to push you,” Hermione replied, downcast. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No, Hermione, look, it’s fine. I really appreciate you looking out for me. And I know you really love your job at the Ministry, and Ron does too. I just—It’s just not for me. Not anymore. And I hope you can be okay with that,” Harry said firmly.

There was silence on the other end, and then, “What kind of job are you thinking of?” Harry sagged with relief.

“I’m not really sure, actually. Muggle stuff is of course the easy option. There’s plenty of coffee shops and café’s around, and some bookstores… wizarding stuff is harder, for me, because everyone of course knows who I am, and it’s difficult to find people who will treat me as just _Harry_ , not overwhelm me with all the… _savior_ stuff,” Harry continued, deciding that was all he could plausibly fit in the laundry basket in front of him. He wondered if he could manage to hold the phone and lift the basket at the same time.

“Okay, Harry,” Hermione replied softly. “I think those sound like great options. Do you think you’re going to head out and pick up some applications? See what’s out there?”

“Yeah, I was er—thinking I might ask Malfoy to come around with me. For moral support,” Harry told her, suddenly nervous. He knew Hermione still strongly disliked Malfoy, and for good reason in her own right.

Instead, she responded by saying, “ _Hmm_ , have you been hanging out with Malfoy a lot? You seem to be a lot happier lately.”

Harry was thrown off by her positive (or at least not negative) answer. “Oh—uh, yeah. Malfoy and some other people,” Harry affirmed, remembering his promise to Percy. And, come to think of it, the others. He now realized he had outed Malfoy to Hermione when they first spoke on the phone. The revelation made his heart sink like a stone. He felt horrible that he had done so without even a second thought. The damage was already done, so he resolved to never do that again, to anyone.

“Well I’m glad you have friends,” Hermione replied softly. He could detect a tiny bit of hurt in her tone.

“Oh come on, Hermione, you know you’ll always be one of my best friends. You and Ron. We have a bond that no one else will ever come close to. We’ve been through… and seen… so much together. We understand each other in a way no one else can,” Harry said in an attempt to mollify her.

“Of course I know that! I guess I just… miss you,” Hermione admitted.

Harry felt his stomach clench. He knew this was an opening for him to invite her to come visit him, or for him to announce his plans to go visit her. But the truth was, he wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to go to London to visit them, because he couldn’t bear to see that city yet, and face all the memories of not only what had happened but also how unhappy and unwell he was. But, in the same breath, he also didn’t want them to visit him here. This city felt too precious and delicate of a bubble to allow them to enter without breaking it. This life was his own, separate from his identity of _Harry Potter_ , and he found himself paralyzed by fear that his two oldest and closest friends might bring that presence with them. And, there was another part of his anxiety he wasn’t acknowledging—he didn’t want them to see how much he’d changed. Not because he was now a much healthier weight and was sleeping properly, as his nightmares had decreased and no longer featured a certain elderly blue-eyed wizard. He’d love for them to be able to witness that, perhaps to help them worry less. No, it was another change… he didn’t want them to meet Malfoy, or maybe even the other members of his family. _I called them my family_.

He didn’t know what meeting them might do, or might reveal about himself. But it made him feel very intimate and exposed, like they might _see_ something in him he wasn’t quite ready to share. What that something was, he wasn’t sure.

“I miss you too, Hermione,” he said instead. Her disappointment was palpable through the phone, but she didn’t offer up the suggestion of a visit herself. They said their goodbyes instead, with a promise from Harry to call her again soon. He put down the phone, before turning to the large pile of laundry determinedly. This was a battle he was happy to fight.

***

He asked Malfoy after the next Friday night out. Harry couldn’t explain why he and Malfoy had continued their tradition of walking back from the bar to Harry’s apartment each Friday, but he was thankful for it. He found he enjoyed Malfoy’s company, and they could have conversations together that always left Harry with a new perspective on so much he considered absolute. It felt good to be _challenged_ by someone again, someone who wasn’t his Mind Healer.

“Malfoy… I was thinking about getting a job,” Harry voiced. They were about halfway back to Harry’s place. Harry still had yet to see Malfoy’s—after the family dinner at Percy and Oliver’s, they had one at Seamus and Dean’s, then back to Percy and Oliver’s again. Malfoy had ‘skipped’ a turn, because he was in the middle of repainting and he said the fumes were so bad he was glad to be at the bar just to stop his brain from going to mush. He also maintained that he hadn’t skipped a turn at all, because _It was Percy’s turn, Oliver, not both of yours. Going off the established order, you’re next, not me._ The next family dinner night promised to be at Malfoy’s though, and Harry couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t excited and a bit anxious to finally see the mysterious place Malfoy called home.

“I think that’s a good idea. It’s nice, isn’t it, to get out of the flat sometimes? Feel like you can breathe, and have a distraction from everything,” Malfoy responded, waving his hand dismissively in the air at the word ‘everything’. They both knew what he was referring to.

Harry took a deep breath of the crisp night air, as if to prove Malfoy’s point. “Yeah, it is. I guess I have you to thank for that.” Malfoy didn’t respond, just looked ahead as Harry saw him fail to hide a smile.

“Speaking of which… considering you seem to have a mystical power to get me out of my apartment, I was wondering if you’d consider coming along when I go on my job hunt,” Harry said nonchalantly, eyes darting over to Malfoy’s face to catch his reaction.

He needn’t have worried about missing it, as Malfoy stopped walking all together, and turned to look at Harry with shock on his face. Harry suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Sorry, bad idea? You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just thought, maybe, it might help. I don’t know,” Harry mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No, NO—Harry I would absolutely love to. Sorry. Just took me a second. I guess I’m just… surprised, to hear you think so highly of me.” Now it was Malfoy’s turn to look embarrassed.

“You haven’t figured that out yet? Wow, and here I was thinking you were actually an _intelligent_ wizard,” Harry teased. Malfoy swatted at him as Harry easily dodged.

Red in the face, Malfoy turned back forward, saying, “Come on, Harry, let’s keeping going, as this _smart_ wizard isn’t keen on freezing his arse out here all night.”

Harry almost found himself teasingly replying, _And what a fine arse it is indeed_ , but immediately stopped himself. _Where did that come from?_

As they arrived at Harry’s building, they both seemed to slow down, reluctant to say goodbye.

Harry found he was unable to hold back a question that had been burning at the back of his mind since the night of his first family dinner.

“Malfoy… that first night, at Percy and Oliver’s… I couldn’t help but notice you were the only one who didn’t share their story,” Harry carefully voiced. He noticed Malfoy stiffen at the mention, but then he slowly relaxed his body. A tired smile took over his face, and while sad, it was genuine.

“I promise, Harry, I’ll tell you one day… just not tonight,” Malfoy softly answered, leaning his head against the brick wall of the building. Harry was reminded once more of what Hermione had said to him, all those months ago… _I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been, to have Lucius as a father, when inside you’re struggling with the fact that you’re gay. I hardly see Lucius as the tolerant type. I mean, abusive to boot, and probably obsessed with the idea of producing heirs and strong heterosexual marriages between pureblood families. He probably had very strict ideas of masculinity too._

“Okay, Malfoy. Goodnight,” Harry said, equally as soft. He hoped his voice conveyed how much he knew it took for Malfoy to make that promise to him.

“Sweet dreams, Potter,” Malfoy called out with a rueful smile, walking backwards away from the building before turning. Harry stood there, in the moonlight, until Malfoy was around the corner and out of sight.

***

Harry sent a fire message that next Tuesday, asking Malfoy to meet up. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d last used magic, and he discovered he was a little rusty. It took him two tries to get it right, and he resolved to practice magic in some of his spare time in the flat. Another diversion to occupy his boredom, at least until he got a job.

Malfoy agreed, as he had that past Friday. Which is how they came to be walking down one of the main streets of Brighton, Harry clutching several blank applications in his hands, while Malfoy juggled two cups of coffee, both for himself.

“I still can’t decide which one I like better. The _Common Grounds_ or the _Poor Yorick’s_ ,” Malfoy agonized, mostly to himself.

“Does it really matter?” Harry snipped, irritated only because this had been the quandary Malfoy had pontificated at length about for the past half hour.

“Of course it matters, Harry! If it comes to choosing a position between these two fine establishments, you _have to_ choose the one with the superior coffee! It’s essential,” Malfoy said, so seriously Harry wasn’t even sure if he was joking or not.

So he asked. “Are you joking? I can never tell.”

Malfoy’s eyes went wide. “I _never_ joke about coffee,” he said, wide-eyed with conviction.

“I’m sorry I asked,” Harry muttered.

A question suddenly hit him. “What is it that you do, Malfoy?”

Malfoy kept looking ahead as they walked on. “I’m a writer,” his lips quirked up in a smile, “for the Quibbler.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in complete shock. “The Quibbler? _The_ Quibbler?!”

“The one and only,” Malfoy replied, while stopping to throw out his two empty coffee cups in one of the street trash cans.

As Harry continued to fish-mouth, Malfoy let out a laugh. “Towards the end of the war, against all odds, I became close with Luna. She was… captured, you remember, and used to blackmail her father. So she was kept down there, in that prison…” Malfoy drifted off. Harry let out a shiver, trying to stop his thoughts from placing him back down in that cold cage.

“When I was… bad. Disobedient. Disrespectful, in their eyes at least. Or, if my father was bored,” Malfoy let out a bitter scoff at this, “I was thrown in there too. I was so terrified, then, of everything. I was living with so many death eaters, and Voldemort himself on more than some occasions. I couldn’t risk doing or saying practically anything. I was frozen, walking on near constant eggshells. I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore, I was confused, everything was mixed up in my head… I didn’t think I agreed with my parents or my ‘side’, if you will, but it was all I’d ever known… it’s what I grew up around, and I was so conflicted. It’s hard, I guess, as a child to see your parents as anything but infallible. With my father it was easier, even while I was terrified of him I knew he was not a good man. But… my mother. How could my mother I loved so dearly support something so wrong? They must be right. I didn’t realize she was just as afraid as me. That being a wife and a mother kept her just as bound, if not more so.

But, that conflict brought me eventually closer to Luna. At first, I refused to talk to her. She’d prattle on, and I’d ignore her, sat tightly in a ball on that cold damp floor, glaring at the prison door until I was released, whenever my father or another death eater remembered. But… I knew what it was like down there. And they often forgot to feed us, and I wasn’t even in there for very long. A couple of hours maybe, once overnight, but Luna? She was never let out. So, against my better judgment and safety, I started bringing her food. I still refused to talk to her, I didn’t want to acknowledge I was doing it because that would make it real. I didn’t speak, just brought her the food and left. Finally, when I dared, whenever we were locked up together I allowed myself to talk with her. Not deeply, never deeply. But I opened up enough to let the cracks in my armour shine through. I think that you’ve got Luna to thank, really, for what happened when the death eaters asked me to identify you before we’d call for Lord Voldemort. Again, so conflicted… but just like bringing the bread, I allowed some tiny part of decency still remaining in me to win over control.

After the war, Luna came and found me. She held my hands in hers and thanked me for the food. I broke down sobbing, naturally, apologizing over and over again and saying that she had nothing to thank me for, and every reason to despise me and want me dead. She grabbed me close to her and held me, saying some nonsense about seeing kneazles on me, as the lovely girl does. Then she pulled back, looked me in the eyes seriously, and said _thank you for the food_.” Malfoy shook his head fondly at the memory, a sad smile on his face as he looked down at the pavement beneath their feet.

He continued, “I understood then that that was just who Luna was. A kind and pure soul, who believed in righteousness and justice even for those who wronged her. She had taken over the Quibbler from her father, and so when she offered me a job as a writer there, I said yes. I couldn’t imagine anyone else would offer me, Draco Malfoy, a job. And I couldn’t imagine anyone better to work for than Luna. She looked at me like a person, who still had value and worth despite all I’d done. So I worked for her! Under a pseudonym, which was my one condition. I write a column each week.”

“Wow, I’ve got to say, I never in a million years would’ve imagined that but… I’m really glad for you. That you have that in your life,” Harry responded, still slightly gob-smacked.

“Thanks, Harry,” Malfoy said, but the simple words seemed to carry a lot more meaning. “Do you want to stop to get something for lunch?”

They stopped in at the nearest sandwich shop and wolfed down a small bite before proceeding onward in their quest for Harry’s perfect job.

They decided to cut across a local park to reach a couple more shops on Harry’s list before calling it a day. They were going to head back to Harry’s flat afterward to review and rank his options. As they crossed the park, Harry felt Malfoy suddenly tense up beside him, seeing somebody in the distance. His breathing became heavy, and then he stopped walking altogether. He was trembling ever so slightly, and Harry quickly realized Malfoy was having a panic attack. He gently guided Malfoy to a bench a mere foot away from the path, so he could sit down just in case he became lightheaded. Harry sat next to Malfoy in silence. He wasn’t even sure if Malfoy consciously knew he was there at the moment, as his eyes were glazed over and fixed on a blank point in the distance, while his jaw was clenched. Harry wasn’t sure if Malfoy wanted to be touched when he was like this, but he took a chance and reached out slowly, taking Malfoy’s hand. As Malfoy squeezed Harry’s hand tightly in response, he felt relieved that he had made the right call.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there—five, ten, fifteen minutes, he couldn’t know. All he did know was that he would’ve been willing to sit there with him forever, if needed. Especially after Malfoy had sat with him, in that disgusting alleyway, on the ground, for hours after his recent bad PTSD flashback. He had had a few since, on his own, but never as severe as that one. That was perhaps the kindest, most generous, selfless thing anyone had ever done for Harry personally… that he could be sure was one hundred percent external to his role as _the_ _savior for the wizarding world_. It was for Harry, Harry the person who had been through trauma, and abuse, and was allowed to be hurt by it.

“I thought I saw…” Malfoy whispered, still lost.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry interrupted. “But if you’d like to, I’d be honoured to hear it” Harry continued softly. They looked at one another and gave small smiles, Malfoy recognizing those as the same words he had used with Harry so many weeks ago. He turned away again, studying the horizon.

“I don’t think I’m going to, if you don’t mind,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. He peeked up at him, as if checking his face for a reaction. Harry felt as if maybe he should’ve been hurt, that Malfoy wasn’t willing to open up to him. Maybe he would have, before everything, he wasn’t entirely sure. Harry took a moment to take stock of himself, and found that instead of feeling betrayed or like Malfoy didn’t trust him, he felt completely content with standing by his words. Malfoy would share when he was ready, or maybe never at all. And Harry was okay with that.

“Okay,” Harry responded simply. “Would you like to stay here for a little longer, or head back to my flat?”

Malfoy seemed to wrestle with himself for a second, before wearily saying, “I might just head home early, if that’s alright with you.”

“Err… I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea,” Harry hesitantly replied.

“Why?” Malfoy snapped back.

Harry swallowed, mouth dry, before continuing even more carefully than before. He was becoming increasingly unsure he was making the right decision, but the memory of Malfoy’s reaction to holding his hand made him feel more resolved.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now. I’d like it if you would come home with me, instead,” Harry finished, keeping his eyes determinedly locked on the tree line. As the silence between them stretched on, Harry couldn’t help but turn to look at Malfoy’s face nervously. _Maybe he was wrong?_

But Malfoy didn’t look angry. He was blinking up at Harry owlishly, shocked at his explanation. “Wow… you never seem to stop surprising me, Harry,” Malfoy said wondrously, looking overwhelmed.

“What do you mean?” Harry replied sheepishly. Feeling self-conscious, he ruffled his unruly hair just to give him something to do with his hands. Malfoy shook himself out of whatever stupor he had been in.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered as he turned away. “So, are you apparating us this time or am I?”

Harry couldn’t resist the grin that split his face at Malfoy’s casual implication that he accepted Harry’s offer. He reached out and wrapped his arm around Malfoy’s, apparating them away without warning with a crack.

***

“Harry! What the hell were you doing! I didn’t mean like that! We were in the middle of a muggle park for Christ’s sake. I meant that we should find a nice alleyway to go into first,” Malfoy lectured, irked.

“Why Mr. Malfoy, I’m just not that kind of girl,” Harry teased, batting his eyes coquettishly. Malfoy flushed red.

“You know what I mean,” he mumbled.

Harry chose to ignore him, declaring, “Well I don’t know about you, but I am starving. Those sandwiches were hardly satisfying and unlike _some people_ , I was actually busy gathering info on those places, and not using it as an excuse to sample every kind of pastry in the shop.” Harry narrowed his eyes shrewdly, while Malfoy just smiled at him happily, clearly unbothered by Harry’s inditement. Harry just rolled his eyes.

“Now, while it’s certainly no duck breast with pomegranate-citrus glaze—”

Malfoy snickered at the mention. “If I never hear that phrase again it’ll be too soon,” he chuckled.

“ _Anyway_ , as I was saying, you’ll have to make do with some spaghetti bolognese,” Harry concluded, feigning irritation.

Malfoy offered a long-suffering sigh. “If I must,” Malfoy agreed, waving his hand dismissively. The aloof facade was ruined, however, by his inability to conceal his smile even as he spoke the words.

Harry clapped his hands together. “Great! Can I make you a cuppa while I get to work?”

Malfoy offered him a small smile from where he sat, legs outstretched, at Harry’s circular kitchen table.

“Sure, Harry. That’d be lovely,” he quietly replied. He contented himself to sit back and watch the other man care of him, heart clenching painfully at the sight.

***

Time raced forward and before Harry knew it, it was family dinner night at the illusive apartment of one Draco Malfoy. This was the first time, Harry realized, that he was heading out to an event with the gang without Malfoy by his side. Harry had been given the address by fire message some days prior, and had tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized that meant he’d be heading over to Malfoy’s place alone. Logically, he knew it made little to no sense for Malfoy to leave his flat where he’d soon be hosting dinner, just to pick Harry up from his apartment when he was plenty capable of getting there himself. He couldn’t conceal his disappointment though as he rifled through his closet for something to wear.

He wanted to look good, for some reason, and he wasn’t sure why but he wasn’t going to question it. It was the first time in years that he actually cared what he looked like, and didn’t want to look like an un-ironed cotton shirt straight out of the dryer. It was hard for him to find comparatively _nice_ clothes in his wardrobe, amongst what seemed like miles and miles of sweatpants and oversized plain tees. He had a few pairs of jeans and some sweaters that he relied on for Friday nights at the bar, but he felt like this was an extra special occasion. Family dinners tended to be, he rationalized. Everyone did treat it as a more formal occasion than the casual nature of their standing bar dates.

He finally pulled together an outfit that made him feel somewhat respectable, then glanced at the time and rushed out the door of his bedroom. He patted his pockets to make sure he had everything, then was bounding down the stairs out of his apartment building. Harry had decided to walk to Malfoy’s. He was curious to see how far away it truly was from his own, after so many nights of Malfoy accompanying him home before parting ways.

He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or mildly disillusioned to find out that Malfoy’s place was barely a five-minute walk from his own. He felt warmth in his chest that his friend was so close, and he also felt annoyed with himself that he felt slightly disappointed that Malfoy didn’t walk to the ends of the Earth just to spend time with him. _How special do you really think you are, Harry?_ He rolled his eyes at himself.

He didn’t have long to fester over his own troubling thoughts and emotions because he was soon standing in front of the buzzers for Malfoy’s apartment building. He was swiftly buzzed in, and after huffing up several flights of stairs _Merlin, was he really this unfit?_ he was at Malfoy’s front door. He raised his fist up to knock, then lowered it again. He felt sweaty, and his stomach was tied up in knots. _Why was he so anxious?_

“Hiya Harry, the door won’t bite you, ya know!” Seamus called out, walking down the hallway holding Dean’s hand. Dean shushed him, offering Harry a guilty smile. Harry narrowed his eyes at it, wondering what it was Dean wasn’t telling him.

Reaching the door, Seamus reached over Harry to give the door a loud set of knocks.

“Open up Malfoy, let’s see this fabulous paint job,” Seamus’ boisterous voice rang out.

There were various noises behind the thick black door, before it was thrown open to reveal an out-of-breath Malfoy. _Breath-taking_.

“Shut up, Seamus, don’t wake up all the neighbours,” Malfoy complained.

“Wake them up? It’s eight pm, grandpa!” Seamus retaliated, forcing his way through the doorway and dragging an apologetic Dean behind him.

“Hi, Harry,” Draco greeted with a softer expression.

“Hi, Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here,” Harry tried for a joke, cringing internally. Malfoy didn’t seem to mind, though, letting out a loud guffaw.

“Come on in,” Malfoy gestured, sweeping his hand through the doorway of his flat. Not needing any further encouragement, Harry stepped through the doorway. With Malfoy still standing with his back to the door to hold it open, Harry felt a breath away from him as he passed over the threshold. This might’ve been the closest they had ever been to each other. He could smell his cologne, equally sweet and musky, wafting like an ambrosial breeze into the flat behind him. _Why does that matter?_

As he entered, he immediately saw Percy, and then Oliver, who was in the middle of holding a bottle of sherry high up in the air while Seamus childishly jumped up for it.

“Hey, if you drop that you buy it!” Malfoy called out. “This is why I hate having them over here,” he lowly confided. “Like children, the lot of them.”

Harry couldn’t help but nod as he observed the ridiculous scene. His eyes were quickly distracted, however, by the décor of the room.

“Wow, Malfoy… the paint fumes were definitely worth it. This is unbelievable,” Harry said, awe-struck. And it was—the entire main room of the flat was painted a magnificent midnight blue colour, but despite a lack of pictures or artwork, the walls were not bare… no, the walls were covered in gold stars, in the shape of dozens of constellations, each one accented by the name written in careful cursive beside it. _Draco, Cygnus, Andromeda, Leo (containing a larger star for Regulus), Orion (with a star for Bellatrix), Canis Major…_ Harry’s eyes locked on Sirius’ name, and he drifted towards it with a hand outstretched to trace the stars. Malfoy settled beside him.

“So many members of my family have names based on astronomy… as many as I could, I painted on these walls. I can’t tell you how long it took me… and I didn’t want anyone to see it until it was done. But somehow it felt important. Here, laid out, is a map of my entire life. The night sky is uncontrollable. We all most likely came from it as star dust, and we all must live under it. But, standing here and now, while we can’t control the sky above us, or how we came to be, we can control our actions here on earth. They can’t take that away from us. Our lives are ours to determine. If you believe in free will, at least,” Malfoy softly explained. His voice was passionate, even as he tried to downplay it with his final comment. Harry was immediately reminded of what Dumbledore had once told him that he had never forgot: _It is not our abilities, that show who we truly are. It is our choices._

“I think it’s the most incredible thing I have ever seen,” Harry decided. Turning to look at Malfoy, he found him beaming, his own fingers tracing the stars. Behind them they heard a crash.

Whipping around, Malfoy was immediately vengeful. “I told you lot to be careful!” he cried, racing over to snatch his glass decanter from Oliver’s now lowered hands while Seamus lay sprawled out on the ground, a single-seat sofa chair knocked over. Clearly, Seamus had decided to climb the couch to reach the bottle, ultimately resulting in his quick and painful descent to the floor. Dean was crouched down beside him, hovering over his body without touching him, as Seamus grumbled but otherwise reassured him that he was fine.

“ _Luckily_ ,” Malfoy called out loudly over the din, “Dinner is already ready. So if everyone wouldn’t mind taking a seat…”

Malfoy’s dining room wasn’t separate to the rest of the flat, it was elevated above the sunken living room area. A rich dark mahogany table stood proudly beside a large window, but the seats surrounding it were all mismatched. “Eclectic, just like us,” Dean cheerily explained on his way past Harry to a chair, catching his inquisitive look. _They all know each other so well_.

The meal that followed was not unlike any of their other gatherings: loud, boisterous, humorous, warm, and loving. Harry felt his heart fill to the brim and then overflow with happiness and love for these incredible people he called family. Unlike their normal drawn out evening, Oliver and Percy called it a night early, as apparently Percy had a huge Ministry meeting early the next morning and Oliver was meeting with his agent over some team deal. But they didn’t leave without making a dramatic exit.

Coats and scarves already on (as they planned to make a stop off at the grocery store before heading home), Oliver turned back to the gang who had gathered at the door to say goodbye. “Oh yes, and before I forget… we’ve decided on a date for our wedding. Alright, bye!” Chaos followed, as everyone burst in at once.

“EXCUSE ME? YOU DO NOT GET TO—”

“WHAT? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US—”

“WHY DID YOU WAIT UNTIL NOW TO—”

Harry cleared his throat. Then, thinking better of it, raised his wand to his throat to better project. “QUIET!”

Everyone immediately stopped talking and froze, shocked that it was Harry’s loud pronouncement that had cut through the chaos. “Now, I think we should let Oliver and Percy explain. And more than anything else, _actually tell us the date_!” Harry said his piece.

“Thank you, Harry. So, as you know we’ve thought long and hard about this. We’ve debated over several dates, and also when it felt like the right time in both our lives to dedicate to a wedding. Without further ado… we’ve decided to have it about a month and a half from now, April 14th,” Percy announced.

Congratulations followed, as well as joking comments such as _I am invited, right?_ And _Sorry, I can’t come, I’ve got to wash my hair that day_. After the cacophony of voices died down, Oliver and Percy hugged each person before saying their final goodnights. Seamus, Dean, Malfoy, and Harry filed back into the living room to sit and talk some more, but that quickly ended thirty minutes later, when Seamus and Dean started making out so severely that Malfoy actually kicked them out of his apartment. _You have an apartment for that, you filthy bastards._

And then there were two. Harry made no comment about leaving, and Malfoy didn’t address it either. They sat back down together on the same couch, facing each other. Talk drifted from Malfoy’s approaching deadline for the Quibbler, to the applications Harry had decided to submit to three places they had seen: the two cafes Malfoy had debated over, and a quiet little bookshop they had stopped into on a whim. The bookshop had been a hidden gem in the area, as it was the perfect mix of wizard and muggle, featuring a muggle novel section, followed by a hidden wizarding section near the back. There was a certain charm to the small shop, and Harry was immediately drawn to its peaceful aura as well as its hybrid make-up.

“It sounds like you really like the bookshop, I hope they offer you the job,” Malfoy noted eagerly.

“I hope so too,” Harry admitted, small nervousness collecting inside him.

“You do realize, of course, that if you end up getting offers to both those cafes, you’re going to have to decide once and for all which one’s the superior coffee,” Malfoy intoned seriously, though his eyes glimmered with laughter.

“I guess we’ll just have to go back there sometime, so you can get a second tasting,” Harry replied. They both paused, looking at each other. The offer was so casual, but it didn’t feel that way. There was a certain charge to the air. _When did their faces get so close together?_

Malfoy broke the tension first, jerking away. He looked off towards the dining room window. Hesitating, some part of him won over an internal debate that brought him to speak. “Harry, can I ask you a question?”

Even though Harry was practically trembling with anxiety over what the question might be, before he knew it he was answering, “Of course, Malfoy, anything.”

Malfoy paused again. He clenched his jaw. He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and closed it again. He turned to look at Harry after a moment, and Harry was shocked to see Malfoy’s eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“Would you still like to hear my story? About my sexuality, I mean,” Malfoy asked, his voice sounding gravelly and raw.

Harry could only bring himself to slowly nod at first, before jumping to say, “But not if you don’t want to Malfoy, please, don’t do it if it’s going to upset you.”

Malfoy’s jaw was still clenched, and so were his fists. “I… want to. And getting upset is inevitable, if I talk about this. But in spite of that, I still want to. You’ll just have to be a bit patient with me, okay? And forgive me if I get a bit too emotional,” Malfoy quietly replied, self-deprecatingly.

“Malfoy… I will be as patient as you need. And never apologize for getting emotional about this stuff. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you one of the bravest men I know,” Harry rushed to reassure him. He wasn’t sure if what he said made any sense, it was so much better in that room with his Mind Healer, but it seemed to have worked, as Malfoy offered him a watery smile.

“Okay. Okay. _Ohh—kay_. Telling this story,” Malfoy repeated to himself, looking down at his lap while he lightly bumped his fists into his thighs. He clenched and unclenched his hands.

“I’m not really sure where to begin so… I guess I’ll just start.” Malfoy cleared his voice several times and shifted in his seat before beginning.

“I knew from a very young age I was gay. Accepting it, however, was another thing entirely. I tried to deny and suppress it as much as I could. I knew what was expected of me, and all pure-blood children. It was my one purpose in life, or so it felt like. My father made it clear that I was useless at everything else. And I also knew what it meant to disappoint him…” Malfoy winced as he absent-mindedly squeezed his own shoulder, hinting that his back was victim of the majority of that rage.

“I was so desperate to please him, to maybe make it all stop… there was something broken in me, wrong and unnatural, and it became my darkest secret. It tormented me. I worried people could see it on me, especially my father. I convinced myself that this was the reason he hated me and hurt me, and if I just tried harder everywhere else, he might forget. Which, to be fair to my younger self, was half right. I’ll let you guess which half. Ironically, my perfectionism just made me more prone to mistakes, which only made him angrier,” Malfoy’s face was twisted bitterly, pain radiating off him at the memories.

“My mother… we never talked about it, but I felt like she knew. She was always so strict and proper around my father, but it was her who snuck into my room at night with healing balm, telling me that she loved me. She looked at me sometimes with knowing in her eyes, and while at first it completely terrified and mortified me, soon it was a comfort,” Malfoy added, bitterness transforming into a small smile at the mention of Narcissa.

“As I grew older, I began to feel like my paranoia was not unfounded that my father suspected me, because the marriage agenda was pushed much more adamantly than ever before. It was the topic of conversation at every meal, and summers were spent on arranged dates with the local respectable pure-blood women. I felt more and more under a microscope.” Harry could see the stress and tension overtake Malfoy’s body, even though these events were long past.

“Ultimately, my fears were confirmed one night after returning from one of these pre-arranged ‘dates’. My father was in a foul mood, which already had me on edge. He started throwing things and smashing them with his cane, then drew out his wand to destroy everything in sight. I didn’t think about myself in that moment, all I could think was _I’m so glad mother isn’t in this room_. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me into his office, before letting go only to push me to the floor. He raged at everyone and _everything_ for a very long time, spoken more to himself than to me. I still don’t know what happened to make him like that, but something must’ve gone wrong with the other death eaters or in service to Voldemort, for sure. He had gotten into some kind of trouble, for not doing something or for making a mistake,” Malfoy digressed, lost in thought. He shook his head to clear it, jumping back into his story.

“But that’s beside the point. The point is, at the end of his tirade, he turned to me with ice in his eyes, and said, _What did I do to deserve a fucking f—for a son?_ I felt frozen, my limbs locked in place. My shock had to have been written all over my face, because he laughed with that horrible sneer of his. It felt like a living nightmare. He wasn’t finished though, he had more wonderful words to impart on me. “ _You’re honestly going to try and deny it? You’re disgusting, and this is the final and most abhorrent disappointment of them all. I wish you’d never been born._ ” Malfoy desperately tried to appear angry at his words, but only managed heartbroken. He started to cry, and it took him several minutes to regain the ability to speak. Harry reached out to gently take one of Malfoy’s hands, his heart aching for him.

“After that, my father didn’t speak to me unless required. When he saw me he beat me, but spent the majority of his time ignoring me entirely, saying the most loving phrases like _I don’t have a son_ , _You’re worthless without a wife. The only thing you might’ve actually been able to accomplish in this life… you’re useless. There’s no point in you being alive._ ” Malfoy broke down crying again, and Harry felt tears of his own silently break free as he squeezed Malfoy’s hand tight. They sat together like that for several minutes, until Malfoy mustered the strength to continue. _Please, not more. How much more has Draco suffered?_ The use of his first name slipped Harry’s notice, he was so consumed by this moment, and this man.

“I suppose I should be grateful to him, for one thing,” Draco said blandly. At Harry’s noise of disapproval, Draco shook his head. “No, it’s true. I’m grateful to him that despite the fact he knew this horrible secret of mine, he didn’t tell the others. Not for my sake, of course, but for his. It would’ve been another black mark against his name, when favour was all you had. After what happened our second year making us already fallen from favour… It burns me to think of it, but his pride and cowardice saved my life.”

“You don’t owe that man anything,” Harry cut in vehemently. Draco gave him a watery smile, even though they both knew what Harry had said wasn’t true. Lucius had had the power to have Draco tortured and killed or _worse_ , but he didn’t exercise it. Despite all his hatred for his son, it didn’t extend far enough to turning him over to Lord Voldemort. Harry thought darkly what a great comfort it was, that there were still lines that Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t cross. How, somewhere in his heart, he must’ve found that deed _too immoral_ , when so many other atrocities didn’t give him a moment’s pause. Bile rose in Harry’s throat as he realized that he, too, was grateful toward Lucius Malfoy, for allowing him to sit beside Draco today.

Harry didn’t know what to say. As he searched his mind blankly for the perfect words to comfort him, his eyes flicked about the room. He paused abruptly, and the answer was obvious.

“It’s just like this amazing room you’ve created—” Harry waved his hand to gesture around the space. “You couldn’t control his decision that brought your life here, sitting in this moment here with me. But he doesn’t control or define you. He has nothing to do with your life here, he can’t touch it. I repeat that to myself sometimes, when the nightmares get too much. _They can’t touch me._ He can’t touch bar nights, or family dinners. He can’t touch Dean and Seamus’ overly enthusiastic love for one another—” Malfoy snorted through his tears at this, “—And he can’t touch Percy and Oliver, and their wedding in April. He can’t touch _us_ ,” Harry concluded fervently.

“Draco… you’re worth so much more than the life you got,” Harry said breathlessly.

Draco stiffened, saying, “You called me Draco.”

“Yes, I did.”

Silence, then—“Why now?” The unspoken question hung in the air between them, _Is it because you feel sorry for me?_

Harry wasn’t entirely sure why it was that he could now use Draco. He finally decided on, “Because I feel like I’m meeting you for the very first time, in our first year, and I decided to take your hand.”

And sitting there, looking into Malfoy’s eyes, tears clinging to his lashes, Harry couldn’t help but allow a single, dangerous thought to slip through the many walls constructed in his mind… _I think_ _I am in love with this man._

***

“I think I’m in love with Draco Malfoy.”

“Ah, well, hello to you too Harry. I see we’ll be jumping straight into it today,” his Mind Healer responded bemusedly.

Her tone shifted, however, as she observed Harry jump up from the chair he had thrown himself into dramatically and proceed to pace about the room.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it. How could I not see it?! Did you see it? Merlin— _does Hermione see it_? Is that why she said that thing about fifth year? Forget Lord Voldemort, this’ll be the thing that finishes me off. Crippling embarrassment,” Harry ranted to himself.

“Why don’t you sit down, Harry. Let’s take some deep breaths and talk this out. Okay?” His Mind Healer suggested gently.

“Okay. No! Okay. I guess I will,” Harry replied frantically. This time he didn’t throw himself into the chair, he sat down precariously perched at the edge, his legs jiggling up and down, the picture of nervous energy.

“Alright Harry, let’s take a deep breath in, 1….2….3….and then out….1….2….3,” she led him through the breathing exercise. Harry squinted his eyes shut and tried to follow her. Halfway through the second repetition, he jumped back up from his seat.

“ _Agh_ , this isn’t working! I can’t sit down, I’m sorry. I just can’t,” Harry said, frustrated with himself.

“It’s alright, Harry,” his Mind Healer calmly reassured him. “We can still talk like this. Just know that I’d like you to expend some of this energy, so you don’t trigger another attack.”

That got Harry’s attention, and he consciously slowed down his frantic pacing, even while his body vibrated with anxiety.

“So. Tell me what happened,” she prompted.

“We were talking, and it was just the two of us alone, and he was telling me all this stuff—opening up to me about this really personal stuff but it wasn’t even that, it was the fact that we weren’t walking anywhere or doing anything, it was just the two of us, alone, together, and just _looking_ at each other, face to face, and it just hit me and _ugh!_ I am so _stupid!_ ” Harry rushed out, mildly incoherent. His Mind Healer looked momentarily puzzled as she tried to piece together the story from the scraps of information Harry had given her.

“So after family dinner, you stayed at Mr. Malfoy’s and talked, just the two of you? Or was this another time,” his Mind Healer questioned.

“Oh, we’re not doing that anymore. We call him Draco now,” Harry said off-handedly, flapping his hand dismissively as he continued to pace. She raised both her eyebrows at him.

“Ah. I see a lot has happened since our last appointment,” she stated.

“No! Not even, just this one _fucking night!_ I haven’t even seen him since then, why can’t I get this out of my head?” Harry burst out.

“So you’re at Draco’s apartment, after family dinner, and it’s just the two of you alone, and he’s opening up to you… is that right?” she summarized.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Harry said petulantly, knowing full well he hadn’t.

“Okay. So you’re sitting together, facing each other, talking, and you don’t have any pretenses of doing something else. You’re not walking home, or looking for jobs. You’re with each other solely for the reason of spending time with one another,” she continued. Harry slowed down his pacing to a near halt.

“Yes… you could say that…” Harry replied hesitantly.

“So you’re spending time with each other, with no excuse for why you were doing it other than the fact that you both like each other and _wanted_ to spend time together. And Draco is opening up to you, I’m assuming very intimate information from what you told me, showing his absolute trust in you. As a person, not as a _savior of the wizarding world_.  Looking into your eyes,” she followed. Harry slowed entirely to a stop.

“And that’s when you realized that you were in love with him,” she said with finality. “Is that right, Harry?”

He resignedly walked over to the empty chair waiting for him, slumping down into it.

“Yes, that’s right. How do you always do that?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Do what, Harry? I merely pieced together what you had told me,” his Mind Healer replied with a smile. She waited for him to speak. When he did, his voice was small.

“Why didn’t I see it? How could I not see it?”

“Harry… for most of your life, you have been many things. The majority of them were tied up in something much larger than yourself. And more that anything, you have had the weight of being the _Savior_ , that prophecy, and to be frank the weight of the entire wizarding world on your shoulders. You were a child, who had to be a soldier. You didn’t have a lot of time or energy to examine your feelings or your sexuality. And for so long… after your childhood, and then your role in the wizarding war before Voldemort had even fully returned… you’ve been selfless to the point of denying yourself personhood. When you don’t believe you deserve to be happy or your own person, and that the wants and needs of others are vastly more important and meaningful than your own… which I’d like to point out began with the Dursley’s, before you had even reached puberty… in my opinion, all brings us to where we are today, with you sitting right here in my office, reeling over discovering this about yourself.”

Harry took a moment to work through her words.

“What did you mean about the Dursley’s?” he asked, scrunching up his nose in confusion.

“Harry… you cooked for them. You cleaned for them. You didn’t stay in a proper bedroom. You did every task they could think of, in servitude to them. You were raised to believe that being treated as a servant in your own home with your family, in direct contrast to the treatment of your cousin and kind-of adoptive brother, was normal and okay. You were subjected to a form of emotional abuse that I feel has followed you throughout your life, and was only reinforced by the position you were placed in once you reached Hogwarts, and after,” his Mind Healer explained. Though her words were blunt, her tone was caring.

“I guess… I can see that. I mean, I’m not an idiot. Looking back now, I can see that… how the Dursley’s treated me was _really_ fucked up,” Harry replied.

“Really, _really_ , fucked up,” she repeated. “I’m glad to hear you can see that. But it wouldn’t make you an idiot if you couldn’t. Abuse is so tricky, because it makes you believe that how you were treated was deserved, so it’s hard to see it for what it truly is.”

“Fine. What _does_ make me an idiot though, is not realizing how I felt about Draco. Could everybody see it?” Harry angrily asked both himself and his Mind Healer.

“I’m not sure, Harry, you’d have to ask them if you’d like to know the answer to that question,” she answered honestly. He blanched.

“No, no, no. We are never telling anyone about this,” Harry said seriously. “No one.”

“Well that’s easy for me, considering I’m under an unbreakable vow confidentiality agreement as a Mind Healer,” she said wryly.

“Okay, that’s a fair point,” Harry acquiesced, mouth twitching into a smile.

“So, you’re not going to talk to _anyone_ about this? Not even Dean, Seamus, Percy, or Oliver? Or maybe even Draco himself?” she questioned.

“No. Definitely not. I mean, it’s not like I can be a _gay wizard_ ,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and looking at her as if she had a second head.

“Why not? All your friends in Brighton are gay wizards, and living perfectly happy and successful lives,” she challenged, tone pleasant.

“And that’s great for them, and I’m envious, I really am, but I just can’t be that. That’s not my path in life,” he stated assuredly.

“Then what is your path in life, Harry?”

This question gave Harry pause. He froze, opening his mouth and then closing it again. “I’m… not sure actually. Not anymore. Not now the war’s ended.”

She looked at him sympathetically. “And that’s completely understandable. Your identity was tied up in the war for so long, and being a soldier; and now that it’s finished, you’ve been finding it hard to develop a new long-term plan for your life.” She had hit the nail on the head, as she always did. He nodded silently in agreement.

“Well, Harry, there’s a quote I like by Cheryl Strayed, that goes _Don’t surrender all your joy for an idea you used to have about yourself that isn’t true anymore_ , and I think that’s relevant in your case. There’s a lot of things you believed, or were made to believe, about yourself during wartime. And without the luxury of time to examine your own feelings and identity, your wants and needs took the back-burner. Finding out new things about yourself isn’t something bad Harry, it’s normal. And it should be something joyous, not upsetting, although it’s often hard to view it that way at first,” she continued.

“I’d like you to think some more about what we’ve talked about today until our next session, and spend a little bit of dedicated time each day to sit down with yourself, and think about what it is you feel in that moment, and what it is you want. It can be as simple as _I feel hungry_ and _I want a sandwich_ , for example. It may seem silly, but I think it’s an important step to you getting to know _Harry Potter_ , the person, and his wants and needs. Not _Harry Potter, the Savior_ , and what other people want and need from him,” she concluded.

Harry mulled over her words, feeling unsure about the assignment. “I promise I’ll… try.”

“That’s all I ask,” she responded genuinely, with a warm smile.

***

Harry couldn’t sleep. His conversation with the Mind Healer was circling around inside his head. He rolled over for the twelfth time in however many minutes, before sitting up with a huff. This was hopeless. He wasn’t getting any sleep tonight.

Sitting with himself, he thought _I feel tired and confused_ , and _I want to talk to Draco._ It was the second one that surprised him. Shrugging, feeling like he had nothing left to lose, he sent a fire message.

_Are you still awake?_

He got a simple reply.

_Come over._

Harry wasn’t going to allow himself to overthink it. He hopped out of bed, looked himself over to make sure he was decent, then apparated away to Draco’s apartment with a pop.

***

“Hey,” Draco greeted with a tired smile, sipping a cup of tea while seated on the couch. He was wearing black frame glasses and was surrounded by piles of papers.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” were the first words out of Harry’s mouth, as he mentally kicked himself for the dumb remark.

Draco reached up to pat his face, as if he had forgotten he was wearing them. “Oh, thank you, I guess,” Draco said, flushing, with a crinkled grin.

Harry took in the scene before him again, tearing his eyes away from the glasses and rumpled hair Draco was sporting that Harry found unfairly attractive (and then had to shove down the impending panic over).

“I’m so sorry, you’re working! I didn’t mean to bother you. I should go,” Harry rushed, embarrassed.

“No! Harry, no, seriously it’s fine. I wouldn’t have told you to come over if I didn’t want you here,” Draco replied with a smile.

“What are you working on?” Harry asked, curious now. He walked over to the couches, making sure that the cushion he sat down on wouldn’t disrupt the chaos of papers surrounding Draco like a halo. He wasn’t entirely sure if there was a method to the madness and he had a secret organization system, or if it was straight up a wash of papers, but he didn’t ask.

“I’m doing my final edit of my piece for the Quibbler,” he answered, using a bright red pen to cross out a word before scribbling in the margins.

“I never asked… what type of articles do you write for them? Their normal content doesn’t really seem like… your thing, no offense,” Harry inquired.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Draco laughed. But then he looked oddly embarrassed. “I write… stories. For them.”

“Stories? What do you mean?”

“Well, when Luna offered me the job she said that I could do whatever I wanted with my section. She wanted to remake the Quibbler, making sure to include a bunch of different peoples’ ideas. And I… I don’t know why, but I’ve always wanted to write. I’ve always loved how books can lift you far away from whatever hell you find yourself in, and you can be anywhere, or anyone, and do anything. So… I write stories. Well really one story, and each week has a new installment. It’s got a small following, which I’m trying not to get a big head about,” Draco finished sarcastically, rolling his eyes at himself.

“Wow. That’s actually really cool. I’d like to read them some time, if I could,” Harry replied honestly.

“Well, I’m going to ignore the _actually_ part of that and say thank you for the compliment. And… if you’d like to someday, yeah, that’d be really nice,” Draco answered, abashed.

They sat in silence for a while, which seemed to be a common theme with them. But the silence was never uncomfortable when it was like this. Harry got up and went into the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea. He then sat back down on the couch. They sat some more.

When it became clear Harry had no intention of speaking first, Draco casually prodded, “So what brings you here to my apartment tonight Harry? I appreciate the visit, but I imagine there was another reason as well.”

Harry messed with the ratty ends of his sweatshirt sleeves, pulling at a thread and watching part of it unravel. Finally, he tried, “I’ve just been thinking, a lot. About something my Mind Healer said to me.”

Draco didn’t miss a beat, continuing to review his draft and reach for a paper from one of his messy piles. “Oh? What did she say? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, it’s fine, um… she said something about the Dursley’s,” Harry tried to say casually. This time, Draco did pause.

“Oh… okay. I don’t think we’ve talked about them much,” Draco said, equally as casual, resuming his work.

“No… we haven’t,” Harry agreed.

More silence.

“What did she say about the Dursley’s?” Draco finally questioned nonchalantly. It was clear at this point that Draco would need to help Harry along, if he was ever going to relieve himself of the emotional weight on his chest.

“Do you know who the Dursley’s are?” Harry changed tactics. Back to safer territory.

“Your aunt and uncle, right?”

“Yeah, and my… their son, Dudley,” Harry offered.

“You went to live with them? After your parents…” Draco followed up.

“Yeah… Hagrid left me on their doorstep. For them to take care of me. They weren’t exactly thrilled,” Harry continued, swallowing. This time Draco only made a noise of assent, to indicate he was listening. Harry felt himself gaining some momentum.

“My aunt… she was my mum’s sister. Both named after flowers, if you can believe it. Lily and Petunia. But they couldn’t be more different, or at least that’s what I like to imagine. My aunt’s a muggle. And she despises magic with everything in her. My uncle too,” Harry provided. Draco nodded along.

“They caught me doing magic a few times and… it wasn’t pretty. I mean, for a long time I lived in the cupboard underneath the stairs, so that was easy. They’d just lock me in. Never tell me when they’d be letting me out. Or they’d not give me any food, for a while. Or both. I already wasn’t allowed to eat at the dinner table with them. They ate first, and whatever was leftover was mine. I was so hungry, at first… but soon you don’t feel it anymore. It’s only after I got to Hogwarts that it became hard. I ate so well during the year, coming back felt like its own kind of torture. Of course my uncle beat me with a belt, the most common punishment in the world. Anyway… things got really bad my second year. Dobby…” Harry stopped, getting emotional over the brave elf, another person who had died for him.

“Dobby, the house elf. He didn’t want me to go back to school, because he knew…er—what your father was up to,” Harry said awkwardly, realizing Draco’s role in this story.

“It’s okay Harry, I know what we did. Go on,” Draco encouraged.

“Where was I. Oh, yes, Dobby. So Dobby didn’t want me going back to school, and knew that if he caused enough damage and did enough magic around them, I’d never be allowed to leave the house, let alone go back to Hogwarts. That was one of the hardest summers I’ve ever had there. I worked so hard to do everything so perfect… and for the first time in my life, I’d gotten a taste of what it felt like to have freedom, and food, and friendship… people caring about me… it was so hard to go back to my former life. I got an upgrade though, I got Dudley’s old bedroom. I actually had a _room_ , with a proper bed. That all went to shit, with Dobby’s meddling. The beatings, the additional chores, next to no food, being locked in the bedroom for days at a time, was it once an entire week? It’s hard to remember, and it’s not important,” Harry dismissed. Draco looked up at him sharply at those words.

“It is important,” he said quietly but fiercely. Harry looked away and swallowed.

“But then, after Dobby’s latest stunt, he got his wish. They wouldn’t let me go back to Hogwarts. And to make doubly sure, they locked the bedroom door again, and… put iron bars over the windows. So I certainly know a little about no food and cages…” Harry trailed off. He looked up, to see Draco’s horrified expression.

“They…put… _bars_ …on…your…window?” Draco ground out.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Harry—I, I had no idea,” Draco responded.

“Not a lot of people did,” Harry mumbled, playing with his ragged sleeves again. “Only Ron, Hermione, and the Weasley’s, of course, because they rescued me second year. And Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid. That's it though, I’m pretty sure.”

“There’s a lot I want to ask about in that, but let me start with _what do you mean rescued?_ ” Draco had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Well, they had put on the bars, right? So Fred—and George and Ron, took their father’s flying car, and used it to pry the bars off the window. So I hopped out the window into the car—my uncle tried to stop me of course but he failed. So I stayed at the Burrow briefly before heading back to Hogwarts. That was the first time I ever saw it. And, the first real home I had ever seen,” Harry explained animatedly, as if what happened wasn’t completely appalling.

“Ah. So when Percy said—wait, did Percy know?” Draco interrupted himself, tone abruptly shifting from soft and comforting to sharp.

“No…at least, I don’t think so,” Harry frowned, considering. “Yeah, he seemed just as surprised as the rest of the family that I was there, and I think he figured it was just another one of his brothers’ crazy antics. To sneak Ron’s friend from school over in the middle of the night, in the most dramatic way possible.”

“Okay. Okay,” Draco took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. At least his good friend hadn’t contributed to this horrifying farce. But that still left—“But what about Dumbledore? Better question: He knew what conditions you were living under all those years? And he _kept you there?_ ”

“Ah. Well. That. He said that… way back when, right, when my mother died for me, the magic of her sacrifice kept me safe. But they needed to keep me safe longer, from Voldemort. So, like, because my Aunt Petunia was my mother’s sister, they thought that maybe the sacrifice might, um, channel? Through her? Even though she couldn’t stand me, or magic,” Harry stumbled through.

“Harry, that makes no sense,” Draco replied, confused.

“I know…” he responded miserably. “But it’s what they thought at the time. They needed me, you know, later. For the prophecy. To defeat Voldemort.”

“And what about _you_ , Harry, the kid? What about what you needed?” Draco contested.

Harry coughed out a dark laugh. “Now you’re starting to sound like my Mind Healer,” he commented.

Draco was reminded of why Harry had come that night. “What was it that your Mind Healer had said to you, Harry? That got you so upset?” His voice was gentle again, though imploring.

“That they treated me more like a servant than a person. That they convinced me that how they treated me was normal, and okay, but it wasn’t. That they—a-abused me, and that set me up so that when it came time for me to go to Hogwarts, I let them use me too. Essentially,” Harry’s eyes never left his lap as he tallied off these statements, voice breaking halfway through and becoming steadily more emotional.

Draco reached out his hand towards Harry, but thinking better of it, left it hanging in the air inches from Harry’s arm.

“A-and… what do you think about it?” Draco tenuously voiced, cringing at his own question. He seemed bursting with unvoiced opinions on what Harry had shared, but was forcing them back to allow Harry the space and freedom to piece together his own thoughts on what he had experienced.

“I think I agree with her.”

You could’ve heard a pin-drop in that room. Harry’s voice was so small, and the words felt so heavy and significant, it felt as if the universe itself paused to allow them to settle into its fabric. Harry slowly turned to shift his eyes up towards Draco’s face, looking almost childlike and unsure.

Then it was broken.

Draco could only exhale an _Oh Harry_ , before he was holding the man in his arms. Neither was sure who had initiated the embrace, only that they were here now, in this room, clutching onto one another and crying, for their own stories but also for each other’s.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ chanted Harry, while Draco’s strangled voice chanted back _you have nothing to be sorry for, nothing Harry, nothing._

“I’m a burden,” Harry confessed through a teary gasp.

“No,” Draco choked back. “You’re a person. Remember? You’re a person, who’s allowed to feel pain. You’re not a soldier anymore, Harry. You’re not a hero. _The war is over_.”

_The war is over._ There were those words again. Words that made him scoff, and rage, and boiled his blood. Words that made him sorrowful, and isolated, and entirely alone.

“Sometimes, it feels like the war isn’t over. Not for me. Like it never even was,” Harry confessed again, voice hardly a whisper.

Draco didn’t have an answer to that, just held onto Harry that little bit tighter.

***

At some point in the night, Harry fell asleep on Draco’s couch while he headed for his bedroom. At first, it had looked as if Draco might offer Harry his own bed to sleep in, ever so chivalrously, but ultimately decided against the gesture. There was something oddly intimate about Harry seeing Draco’s bedroom for the first time and sleeping in his bed. It was a line neither was willing to cross.

Waking up the next morning Harry felt extremely bashful, wincing as he remembered all he had said and done the night before. Adjusting to the light coming through the large windows, he decided to follow the noises he heard toward the kitchen area. Leaning against the granite countertop dividing the living space from the kitchen, he awkwardly cleared his throat. He didn’t know how he should grab Draco’s attention and was also terrified of having to face him again. The whole thing was unfairly embarrassing, to him at least.

Draco swore before turning around, an easy smile glowing from his face. “Good morning Harry! I’m making eggs.”

“I’d apologize again for last night, but I have a feeling you would just tell me not to,” Harry awkwardly replied, ruffling his hair. Draco’s smile widened even further at the gesture, following the movement with his eyes.

“I don’t know what I expected, but somehow I thought your hair would look different in the mornings. But nope! It’s true what they say—it’s perpetual bed-head,” Draco snickered, but he appeared fond.

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed, leaning forward over the counter to take a swipe at Draco. Draco easily dodged the move, sticking out his tongue. Despite his indignation, he flushed red at the comment.

“It’s not a bad thing. I like your hair,” Draco admitted. “Must make all the boys swoon.” Now it was Draco’s turn to blush. “Sorry, I’m just used to—it helps to make it normal, you see, to put men into common expressions—”

Harry put up a hand to silence the stammering man. “Don’t worry about it, Draco. I don’t mind.” But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Harry’s heart had skipped several beats at the comment, feeling raw and exposed. It was the first time he’d heard a comment like that, about men, directed towards him. He felt _seen_ , in a way that was both comforting and frightening.

“Good,” Draco replied, nodding his head shortly. He made a swift one-eighty turn back to his eggs.

They ate breakfast together, then Harry made his hasty exit. It was a relief to be back in his own apartment. All things considered, the solitude of his flat was helpful in a lot of ways. It was his comfort zone, and unhealthy as it may be, those darker feelings it inspired in him were like a wispy, gossamer blanket that he could temporarily tug around himself and feel at home.

He spent some time readjusting, getting back down to baseline. Relaxing into himself, away from foreign eyes. Eventually, he got restless again, and headed out onto the streets. He swung by the muggle-and-magical bookshop they had found, just to give himself something to do. He had submitted his application a little over a week ago and was filled with anticipation over whether or not he got the job. He had been avoiding dropping by, but his conversation with Draco last night made his apprehension over doing _this_ seem miniscule by comparison.

“Oh Harry, so good to see you! I’m glad you stopped by, I wanted to talk about your application,” greeted the old, kindly and slightly bumbling bookshop owner. He had been running the bookshop all on his own for many years, hence his need for a bookshop assistant. “I think it’s safe to say, you’ve got the job my boy.”

Harry lit up, filling with unfamiliar joy at the good news. “Really? You’d like me to work? Here?”

“I sure hope I mean here, otherwise I’ve been running the wrong store for a couple decades now, and another business is unfortunately _very_ derelict,” he quipped, a comedic frown overtaking his face at the thought. Harry caught himself laughing at the joke, and wondered when it was he had last laughed so reflexively, without a thought. His Mind Healer would probably be very happy in their next session—he had opened up to someone, _and_ allowed himself to be happy over something just for himself, not for anyone else. He had to admit it felt good.

They spent some time chatting over what Harry’s schedule would be and what the basic expectations of the job were. It all seemed simple enough—he was only going to be part-time, so he didn’t feel as skittish as he might’ve if he was committing to leaving his flat for long hours every single day. The pay was modest, but Harry was sure he’d spend many hours of his day getting to explore the vast muggle and magical collection the man had. The whole time Harry was there the shop was empty, and he’d only ever seen one customer grace its doors. It was the perfect environment for Harry to feel comfortable in.

Having discussed everything relevant to his hire, Harry thanked the man profusely again before making the journey home. Still drunk on the happiness he’d been gifted by his visit to the bookshop, he hummed lowly as he ambled back, a genuine smile on his face. In such a short amount of time, his life felt like it was accelerating forward after months (or maybe years) of stagnation. Paying attention to the sensation of his lungs expanding, his next thoughts didn’t feel shocking, they felt inevitable. _I think I’m… glad I didn’t choose death, during the Battle or now. That maybe it was a miracle, to get to come back. I’m starting to feel happy I got a second chance at life._

***

And time did accelerate forward. Before he could blink, Harry was working his shifts throughout the week (spent mostly rifling through the book collection, as expected), then spending Fridays at the bar. He was finally put up to bat to host his own family dinner. Thankfully, Draco came over beforehand to help make the flat presentable, transfigure a large dining table, and salvage some decent food out of Harry’s messy attempt at a dish. His family dinner night was the final one before the wedding, which left everyone a bit teary and nostalgic by the end of the meal. Harry was emotional for a reason foreign to him—the idea of two men getting _married_ , and _sharing a life together_ made him feel a lot of complicated emotions, for a whole list of reasons he didn’t dare examine.

After the night he spent at Draco’s, they had been spending more time together. They continued their tradition of walking home together on Fridays, but they began hanging out in other ways as well. They spent nights here and there at one-another’s flats, chatting while Draco worked, or trying their hand at increasingly ridiculous recipes. Sometimes Draco would pop into Harry’s work to say hello but end up pulling up a stool and chatting with him for hours. When the bookshop owner first caught them, Harry paused guiltily mid-sentence, and Draco looked queasy. The bookshop owner only gave them a smile before continuing on his way. They let out a collective breath.

“I sometimes worry… it would kill me, Harry, if my reputation or last name caused you any trouble at this job,” Draco confided quietly.

Harry placed a hand over Draco’s, offering him a small, warm smile.

“Stars, remember?”

Draco looked relieved. “Stars,” he agreed.

***

It was the day of the wedding, when Hermione called him.

“…hello?” Harry answered, confused and slightly concerned. He was always the one who initiated his calls with Hermione, so to receive one from her alarmed him.

“Hey Harry, sorry to call you so suddenly like this, but… Ron and I were talking and we think we’re going to visit you,” Hermione finished confidently, sounding as if she had rehearsed it several times before dialing.

As Harry’s eyes widened in mild horror at her words, Draco shot him a look from across the flat, half a slice of toast in his mouth.

“You and Ron are going to visit? Here? W-when?” Harry replied, repeating her earlier statement mostly for Draco’s benefit. Draco dropped his slice of toast.

“How about—today? Right now?” Hermione answered, this time much more timidly. Now it was Harry’s turn to freeze.

“Hermione…” Harry said carefully. “Please tell me you are not outside my apartment right now.”

Draco was still frozen, hand up to his mouth as if he still had his hand on the slice of toast. In any other circumstance he would’ve laughed. Looking down at his and Draco’s suits, he felt more like crying. From frustration, sadness, or both.

“We would’ve just apparated inside but it felt like an invasion of your privacy,” Hermione inputted nervously.

“ _THAT_ FELT LIKE AN INVASION OF MY PRIVACY?! THAT. NOT CALLING ME UP TO SAY THAT NOT ONLY WERE YOU VISITING WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, BUT YOU WERE ALREADY HERE. BUT YES, THANK YOU HERMIONE, YOU ARE SO THOUGHTFUL FOR NOT BREAKING INTO MY FLAT BECAUSE YOU’VE BEEN HERE ONCE,” Harry roared. His blood was boiling. He had never been so angry. Okay, that wasn’t strictly true because of the war but… in his new life. Life post-war.

“Don’t yell at me!” Hermione replied, sounding tearful. This just made Harry more exacerbated at the whole situation. Draco strode across the room to Harry’s side, stroking one arm up and down in comfort.

“The wards,” Draco whispered, reassuring him. _I put up wards around the flat. They couldn’t get in, without my permission. Nobody could._ Harry smiled up at Draco for the first time in this conversation, body relaxing slightly. Draco hugged him close, sensing his relief.

“So… can we come on up?” Hermione tried, attempting to sound chipper and cheerful.

Harry hesitated. He thought for a moment, still hugging Draco. Draco pulled back to look at him, offering a sad smile and shrug, as if to say _If you’d like to, you can. I’ll just meet you at the wedding later._

Harry was once again in awe of how incredible Draco truly was. Always so empathetic, and thoughtful. Respected boundaries while also encouraging him to stretch them.

“Um… no, Hermione, I’m sorry. You can’t come up,” Harry decided. As Hermione made a noise in protest, Harry cut her off. “No, Hermione, you don’t get to make me feel guilty about this. You came unannounced, and I actually have plans. I can’t stay, I was in the process of heading out when you called. _I_ will call _you_ in a couple days, and we can discuss _then_ when you can come for a visit. But for today, _go home_ ,” Harry finished determinedly.

Hermione made to protest again, but Harry just hung up. He felt assured in his decision for all of ten seconds, until he visibly deflated with worry. Looking up at Draco, he asked, “Was I too forceful? Was that too mean, or too rude?”

Draco glowed with pride at him and shook his head. “Not to me. And seeing you stand up for yourself? I’ve never seen anything more sexy,” Malfoy answered, giving him a wink. Harry’s mouth dropped open, but before he could fully react to the comment, Draco had taken his arm and apparated to the wedding in the blink of an eye.

***

Harry wasn’t sure who he expected to be at the wedding, but it certainly wasn’t this many people. Knowing Percy was closeted, he expected only a handful. Seamus and Dean were of course there, and Oliver’s parents. But there was also his entire quidditch team, as well as several members of the team he had been on before that. There seemed to be a lot of people from the Ministry too, who Harry soon found out were all from Percy’s department. Then there were others: some classmates from Hogwarts that they were still close with, and some of their magical neighbours. Harry had to remind himself that just because Percy wasn’t out to his family or to every person he met, that didn’t mean there weren’t treasured people in his life who knew he was gay. And those people were happy to respect Percy’s privacy and were here to celebrate his marriage, same as everyone else.

“Looking smart, boys!” Seamus called out, waving his hand high in the air enthusiastically to catch their attention. Once he saw they’d found him in the crowd, he let out a low wolf-whistle in their direction. Harry was already flushed like a tomato from Draco’s surprise comment only moments before, but Draco laughed uproariously. There was something about happy occasions such as this one that amplified happiness and shared it around the room with all people. Dean didn’t even playful tell Seamus off for his antics, only laughed loudly himself, tugging Seamus to his side and then releasing him.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, lads,” Draco drawled. “You should take a shower more often, Seamus, it suits you.” Seamus did take a swipe at Draco for that, while Harry barked out a laugh. Dean smiled at him.

“Good to see you too, Harry. I’m happy you could make it. I know you usually work today,” Dean greeted.

“Yeah, the owner is a big ol’ softie. I just told him I had to go to a wedding, and he was like putty in my hands,” Harry happily replied.

To Harry’s absolute surprise and honour, Percy and Oliver had asked him, along with the rest of the gang, to stand beside them at the altar for their wedding. They said they could think of no better groomsmen than their family, and they all got a bit teary-eyed at that and quickly changed topics.

It didn’t slip Harry’s notice the unspoken absence of any of that infamous Weasley red hair in the audience, as the gang took their positions and the guests took their seats. He put it from his mind, determined to be happy for his friends for all the good they had in their lives, rather than the bad.

Percy and Oliver had decided to walk down the aisle together, holding hands, from the doors directly opposite the altar’s stage. Having either man wait up there didn’t feel right, and while Percy loved order and rules, this was one tradition he was happy to break. One of Oliver’s small nieces acted as flower girl, in a ginormous white fluffy dress with a bright pink ribbon wrapped around her waist, and a matching one tied in a large bow in her hair. She adorably made her way down the aisle before Oliver and Percy walked, sprinkling rose petals of white, pink, and rainbow all around. Before today, Harry wasn’t aware there was such thing as a _rainbow rose_ , but the room had them in every arrangement. He would’ve thought they were magically enchanted had it not been for Draco whispering in his ear that they were very much a muggle invention. His spine prickled again at the memory, warmth flooding him.

As the flower girl took her seat in the front row beside Oliver’s parents, the ceiling transformed into a spectacular daytime sky. It looked just like the ceiling of Hogwarts’ Great Hall, and also like a renaissance painting with how the light glinted off celestial clouds, light blues and pinks mixing together to form a mesmerizing skyscape. But as the notes of an excerpt from _Serenade_ by Schubert began, all eyes turned to the beaming and teary-eyed grooms, laughing and tripping over themselves as their eyes struggled to pull away from each other to the path they were meant to walk together. Harry glanced over at Seamus, standing across from him, who was openly sobbing (but thankfully doing it quietly). Harry felt a smile take over his entire face, that he couldn’t hide even if he wanted to. Turning his head slightly to look at Draco stood next to him, he saw Draco’s eyes locked on the couple, as if memorizing the sight before him. Harry understood the feeling—he didn’t know it was possible to feel so much happiness and love in one room. Especially after the war.

_The war is over,_ Harry’s mind whispered to him. And for once, he actually felt it.

***

The vows were a messy and but somehow perfect affair. The officiant had to keep prompting them to follow his instructions because they kept getting lost in each other’s eyes. It should’ve been nauseating, but instead Harry caught himself joining Seamus, tasting salt in his mouth as tears traced a path towards his permanent smile. Dean and Draco were also crying, and the four looked to each other as if to say _Yes, we are here. Yes, we are alive. Yes, we are together. Yes, we could burst with joy and happiness and love._

The vows were intimate and so deeply personally, Harry felt like an intruder getting to hear them. They reflected a lot of the same sentiments they had expressed when sharing their stories with Harry so many months ago: _you saw the best in me, even when everyone else abandoned me; I feel like I’ve loved you my entire life, even before I met you at Hogwarts, and certainly for long after, beyond the rest of our lives; I’ve never felt more safe than with you, while the world fell apart around us. Being with you made me more vulnerable, but also the happiest I have ever been in my entire life; You are my family._

As the ceremony ended, with the exchange of engraved golden bands and an _extremely_ passionate kiss, the room erupted in applause and cheers. Dean, Seamus, Draco, and Harry were perhaps the loudest of them all. Draco found Harry’s hand and squeezed it tight in his own, before letting go. Harry’s hand felt empty without it.

The reception was even more rambunctious. _I guess that’s what happens when you get a whole lot of quidditch players together_ , Harry thought wryly. The space was outdoors, near the forest, but they were shielded from the elements by a large fabric tent, not dissimilar to the one used for Fleur’s, he noted sadly. Lights hung suspended above them at varying heights, and a large light-wood square dance floor lay between many dark wooden tables. The tables were adorned with more arrangements of roses, including the rainbow, and several lit candelabras. As the guests got settled and grazed on food, the sunset dipped below the horizon and night fell. The time came for Oliver and Percy’s first dance. Harry was surprised when the first notes began and it was not a magical artist, but actually a muggle favorite: _It Had to be You_ by Frank Sinatra _._

Oliver and Percy held each other tight and swayed, before pulling back slightly to give each other sweet kisses and what Harry could imagine were whispered _I love yous_. After the first verse, Oliver and Percy broke apart to beckon their guests to join them on the floor.

Dean and Seamus were already halfway there before Percy and Oliver had even raised their hands, and several other couples shortly followed, albeit more slowly. Draco got up from their table and moved to stand in front of Harry, before extending his hand towards him.

“May I have this dance?” Draco asked courteously, with a wink.

Harry felt breathless as he considered. “Of course,” he replied, barely audible, accepting the extended hand and standing up. They made their way to the floor, Draco in front, holding hands under the pretense that Draco was pulling him out onto the floor. He paused, tilting his head, before pulling Harry’s body to his. Draco gently set one hand on Harry’s waist, while raising the other and clasping it in the air by their shoulders.

“Is this alright?” Draco asked lowly, equally as breathless. His searching eyes made it clear that at the slightest word of dissent Draco would move immediately. _Always so caring. For me, for my wants and my needs._ It made Harry’s answer all the more simple.

“Yes,” he breathed.

They began to sway to the music, before drifting closer, and then their heads were hooked on each other’s shoulders as their clasped hands drew in between each other’s chests. Nothing existed, in that moment, outside of him, Draco, and the music. The song ended and drifted into the crooning tones of Nate King Cole’s _I Love You for Sentimental Reasons_ , but it was as if they were frozen in time. This time, it wasn’t from fear, or shock, or sadness, or horror. It was because the moment was so special, so perfect, so intimate, and so warm. Harry felt so happy and content. He wondered if they could stay like this forever.

But as the last notes of the second song slid into a third, Draco pulled back from their embrace. Harry felt his heart sink with disappointment as the moment ended. Then, Draco was asking him, with this _look_ in his eyes, “Do you want to go outside?”

Harry couldn’t find his voice. He nodded, and allowed Draco to once again lead him away, this time towards one of the exit points of the tent. Pulling aside the draped fabric, they stepped through into the chilly night air. They turned to walk to their left, but hardly made it ten feet before they were accosted by the vision of Dean and Seamus making out rather _too_ intensely for public viewing, clothes practically half off. Draco and Harry spun around and ran the opposite direction, still holding hands. They managed to keep their laughter at bay until they were out of hearing range of the pair, before doubling over in laughter, knocking into each other and clutching their stomachs. Their laughter slowed down to a near-stop, then they met each other’s eyes and they were set off again in another round of giggles that left them in tears. Draco flopped down on the side of the hill they had raced up, one arm across his stomach and the other sprawled lazily across the grass next to him. Harry quickly followed his lead, tumbling down onto the grassy hillside, gasping for air.

“Let’s never speak of that again,” Draco said seriously, before laughing once more.

“Agreed,” Harry replied, amused.

They lay there together for several minutes, just catching their breath. Their laughter fully faded away into the night, the only sound the soft hum of crickets and the rustle of grass from the light breeze. Harry sensed the tone shift back to the same one they’d had while dancing. Harry turned on his side towards the other man, leaning up on his hand, and this time it was Draco who copied him. Draco’s hand played lazily with the grass between them, pulling a daisy from the earth and dropping it on top of Harry’s head. Harry scrunched his nose and shook it off.

“Draco?” Harry asked quietly.

“Yes, Harry?” Draco’s eyes were bright in the moonlight.

“I’ve been wondering something for a while now… when we first met, or I guess met again, here in Brighton… why did you invite me along to the bar? This world, your secret world… is so, so _important_ , and _so precious_. You didn’t know how I’d react, you didn’t know if I would take the opportunity to ruin things for you forever… you seemed to consider it, for a little bit. What made you decide?” Harry struggled to explain the question that had been at the back of his mind for months.

“You aren’t that type of person, Harry. You never would’ve imploded my world, or my friends’,” Draco responded, avoiding his eyes as he plucked another daisy.

Harry reached out his other hand to place it on top of Draco’s, stopping him.

“Draco,” Harry intoned seriously. “Please.”

“That first night Harry, the night that we met… I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s haunted me ever since… it wasn’t even how you looked, although you looked so thin I was worried the wind from a speeding car beside us might knock you backwards. And you certainly had eye bags so severe I almost worried someone had dared to punch _the beloved Savior_ in the face. But no, even despite those things, which were terrifying enough… _it was your eyes_. The look in your eyes. That’s why I decided to ask you to come with me,” Draco shuddered as he shared his memory of that fateful night, eyes closed.

Harry’s mood dropped. “So you felt sorry for me,” Harry said flatly.

Draco’s eyes flew open. “No, Harry. Not at all. I saw _me_ , in you. I looked into your eyes, and at your body, and I saw myself, before Brighton. And I thought, _here is the most unbelievable wizard in existence, the most incredible and selfless human-being, and I…_ ” Draco trailed off, avoiding finishing the phrase. “I thought back to how I felt, before, and all I could think in my head was what I had wished someone had done for me, back then. It was pure chance that I found my people, my _family_ , and… I didn’t have any hope, before that. I felt like death. And I didn’t want that for you Harry. Because I knew, even then, that you were a far better person than I could ever dream to be. And it felt so wrong, that I got to have this incredible thing that I didn’t at all deserve, and you didn’t get to see it. So I decided to show you. Hoping that maybe, if I was egotistical enough to believe you were _anything_ like me, you might feel like _Life_ too,” Draco passionately responded.

Harry softly replied, “Okay.” He couldn’t find words to explain how that explanation made him feel, other than not hurt or angry anymore. He felt a mess of emotions towards Draco, all overwhelming and confusing.

“Can I ask you a question now?” Draco asked gently.

“Go ahead,” Harry agreed, distracted by his thoughts.

“Why were you at the church that night?” Draco asked. All of Harry’s thoughts came to a screeching halt.

“The church?” Harry asked, breathless again.

“Yeah, when you called out to me that night you were leaving St. Peter’s church. Why?” Draco inquired.

“I… If I tell you, you have to promise me something,” Harry decided, resolved.

“Sure, Harry. What is it?” Draco replied, slightly wide-eyed at the request.

“You have to promise me that you won’t freak out. And that you’ll remember that I’m in a very different place now. And that you won’t look at me or treat me any differently,” Harry listed out, tone final.

“Okay, Harry. I promise.” Draco swore, nodding his head, equally as serious as Harry. Harry took a minute to gather himself.

“That night… I had been having this dream. For a long while after the war, I had all sorts of nightmares, right? Horrible things, made me wake up screaming, puke my guts out, the works,” Harry explained, waving his hand dismissively. Draco nodded his head in understanding. He had his fair share of nightmares too.

“And then—I came to Brighton, and started seeing a Mind Healer, and that was good. I stopped having those nightmares, for the most part. But I started having this dream—come to think of it, I haven’t had that dream for a long time now. Maybe since that night. Huh. Anyway…” Harry digressed. Draco was looking at him intently, not bothered by the extraneous details.

“I guess to explain the dream you have to know something else. After I…died. In the forbidden forest, with Voldemort… I was, well I’m not actually sure where I was, come to think of it,” Harry frowned, thinking off at the eternal question that would probably never be answered. Not until he died for real. Draco’s face had gone pale at the mention of his death.

“Anyway, I was in this sort of… limbo? And Dumbledore was there. And it looked all dreamy and white, and I realized it looked kind of like King’s Cross Station. And I was talking with him, and we were discussing whether or not I should go back. And we talked about how Voldemort still wasn’t truly defeated, blah blah blah. But we also talked about what would happen if I decided not to go back. And he said that I’d just have to board one of those trains, and I’d go… _on_ ,” Harry continued.

Draco continued to listen attentively, nodding along. His face was turning paler, like he had a vague idea of where this story might be headed, but he also looked mildly lost.

“So, clearly I decided to come back, and it was your mum actually who lied and told Voldemort that I was dead even though she knew I was alive, because of her love for you. Because she asked me if you were still alive and I said yes,” Harry explained. Draco’s eyes grew wide at the new information, but he bit his lip and remained silent, letting Harry finish.

“But in this dream… Dumbledore would ask me, _Are you getting on the train?_ Over and over and _over_ again, and each time, I wouldn’t answer. But that one night, I did,” Harry explained helplessly.

“I don’t know what it was particularly that triggered it… I’d been alone in Brighton for a long time now, isolated and pretty fucking depressed. I’d had a flashback in the street earlier, and lost time. Some wizard got all up in my face in the street _thanking me_ for saving him and all I could do was feel so guilty for having a life at all, when so many others had lost theirs for me,” Harry continued miserably.

“So I answered him, Dumbledore I mean, and I said _yes_. And I woke up and decided… to look for death. That it was the natural conclusion, what nature had intended. I was supposed to die, at the Battle, and I didn’t. I was just… setting things to rights.”

Draco looked unbearably sad, but still remained quiet.

“But then I saw the church, and couldn’t help but go inside. And I thought… maybe I should go inside and say a final prayer. Do the muggle thing,” Harry scoffed at that. “You only die once,” Harry said bitterly, with a dark laugh.

“But I got to the church, and sat down, and went to pray and… I prayed for _life_. To be able to _live_ again. Isn’t it ironic you were wishing for the same thing for me that night too,” Harry said with wonder.

“So… that’s why I was at the church. And why I met you for the first time, again,” Harry finished up awkwardly, not sure what else to say.

Draco stayed silent.

“You can talk now,” Harry prodded.

“Harry I… I love you.”

That was not the reaction Harry was expecting. He was stunned to silence.

“I’m—I’m sorry, what?” Harry asked. He must’ve misheard. Maybe this was a dream, too…

“I love you,” Draco repeated, shrugging helplessly. “I… I’m in love with you and this is probably the most inappropriate time in the world to say this but. It’s the truth. It’s not because you told me this, it’s been in my heart and barely held from my lips for weeks, if not months, if not forever. I love you. I wasn’t sure when to tell you, or if I should, but I do. I guess, it’s the thought of a world without you in it… hearing you talk about dying in the forest, and then the night of the church… just knowing how close I came to losing you, twice. I can’t bear the thought of a world without you, Harry. It breaks my heart. I’m just so, so grateful that you are alive Harry, and that you get to be in _my_ life. I feel so grateful every day because you’ve changed my life, irrevocably. And I know this is so inappropriate to be saying right now, after what you just told me. But I couldn’t hold back any longer, I had to tell you that… I love you Harry, probably always have,” Draco rushed out, barely pausing. “And probably always will.”

Silence reigned. Harry’s mouth hung open.

“And… it’s not because I just told you I tried to kill myself,” Harry stated, deadpan.

Draco flinched at the words, but his response was immediate. “No, absolutely not. It might’ve been the thing that got me to lose all sense and blurt it out so selfishly, but—no. I’ve known I loved you for a while now. I’m not really sure how long I have… but I realized it a couple months ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah… I’m sorry Harry. I shouldn’t have said anything, I really should—"

“Oh, that’s lucky, because I love you too,” Harry numbly interrupted. Now it was Draco’s turn to be stunned.

“I—I’m sorry what?”

“I love you too, Draco. Have for quite a while now. I only realized it the night you told me about your father but… then I felt so stupid, not to have realized before. How could I not have known? All that time, at Hogwarts… I loved you then, and I love you now. Maybe I never stopped,” Harry explained.

“Oh,” Draco parroted.

“Yeah, oh,” Harry replied with a small smile tugging at his lips.

Considering Draco seemed unable to function for the moment, Harry decided that for one of the first times in their relationship, he was going to take the lead.

He leaned forward and kissed him. And all he could think was _I’m in love with this man_ , and _the war is over._ The war with Voldemort, the war with his sexuality, the war with his feelings… because here he was, at least for this moment, perfectly happy and content. He was alive, and sitting on this hill with the man he loved, and that man loved him too, and they were kissing. Harry knew that this moment, just like dancing, couldn’t last forever, and that tomorrow was probably going to be hard again. That he might have another flashback, or struggle to get out of bed. That he still squirmed whenever he thought the words _I’m gay_. That he was still practicing at identifying what he was feeling and what he wanted, external to other people. But when Harry thought _the war is over_ , he understood what all those people might have meant.

The war had happened. So there was damage, and trauma, and loss. There was no forgetting that. But that didn’t mean he had to let the war continue to kill him, day by day. He had let it have so much control over his life—while it was happening, and now once it ended. He let it dictate what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to feel, and what his life was meant to look like. He had allowed it to make him feel guilty for living, when no one blamed him for it. He had also allowed it to make him feel guilty and wrong for not being an Auror, or marrying Ginny. He had felt bad for having pain and trauma, because it didn’t fit the image of the war, of the perfect solider, the Savior. He had allowed the war to dictate how he felt about himself and his life. It made him isolated and miserable, separate to his depression and PTSD, because he had allowed the war to eat away at his self-worth and very soul. It had manipulated him and twisted his mind into believing that he didn’t deserve anything good in this life, and that he should feel guilty for having one at all.

But that was a martyr’s personality. What the war told him the Savior was supposed to feel about life post-war. He was so trapped in that mindset he couldn’t even see… _the war was over_. He didn’t have to let it rule his life anymore. Having trauma and mental illness didn’t mean the war was still raging. Letting it dictate how he lived his life and how he felt about himself did.

He wasn’t going to let the war continue to have that power over him. He was going to do everything in his power to break from that perspective. Because only then would he let the war die. And only then, would he finally let himself _live._

***

Dating, Harry quickly discovered, wasn’t all that different from what he and Draco had already been doing. Only now, they didn’t have to make excuses for why they wanted to spend time together, or why they wanted to do something for the other person. They could say _I love you_ and _I miss you_ and _I want to spend time with you_ without fear of their true feelings being exposed. And they could hold hands, hug, and kiss without feeling as if they were getting away with something.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the gang to find out. Oliver and Percy went on their honeymoon for two weeks, so Dean and Seamus found out first. Seamus spit out his beer rather impressively, and while they all braced themselves for his reaction, he yelled, “ _WAIT, YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU FUCKERS WEREN’T ALREADY TOGETHER?!_ ”

Everyone burst into laughter and feel into easy conversation again. Draco squeezed Harry’s hand under the table and that was the end of it.

That was the other wonderful thing about Draco. He was incredibly understanding about Harry’s comfort (or lack thereof) with his sexuality. They got to talking over the course of that next week before Friday bar night, about Harry’s sexuality and his comfort-level with certain things. They agreed not to show PDA in public very much. When Harry began to fret that Draco might think he was ashamed of him, Draco had very gently cut in with, _Harry no. I understand, and I actually agree. I don’t particularly want the entire wizarding population knowing that a Malfoy is dating Harry Potter. I want our relationship to be ours. And if you’re not comfortable, then I don’t want it._

He also, unsurprisingly, was very understanding about Harry’s closet. He made it clear from the get-go that nobody was going to find out from him about their relationship without Harry’s permission, except if it was beyond their control. He asked who Harry was comfortable telling, and double-checked before following through. So far, it was a very small list: Dean, Seamus, Percy, Oliver… and Ron and Hermione.

Draco was pretty shocked at the last one. Considering how strained the relationship between the trio had become, and how little they actually knew about Harry’s life here in Brighton, he didn’t think Harry would feel comfortable coming out to them. But once again, he was endlessly supportive.

First though, came telling Oliver and Percy.

The gang decided that once they returned from their honeymoon, they’d have family dinner night at the townhouse, screw the schedule.

Percy spent the night loudly educating them on the extended history of Paris as a city, while everyone else (minus Harry) got drunker and drunker to get through. Finally, Oliver swept in, with a gentle, _We love you honey, but maybe we should move to the wedding photos?_

Percy looked around the room at their dreary faces, and flushed red. Scratching his face, Percy sheepishly told them all, “Err… I’m sorry everyone, guess I got a bit carried away.”

“Don’t worry about it Percy, we love ya mate, and after Oliver, your second husband is history. If you want to talk history all night, we’re here to listen. Just… don’t mind too much if we don’t do it sober,” Seamus slurred, frowning through the double-negative.

Percy glowed at the reassurance, especially as each member heartily voiced their agreement with Seamus’ sentiments. Oliver beamed in response.

Which is how Harry found himself, thirty minutes later, sat beside Percy and Oliver on the couch flipping through their wedding album, while Draco, Seamus, and Dean alternated between rolling around on the floor and throwing themselves dramatically onto the rest of the furniture, while occasionally singing drinking songs off-key.

The pictures were gorgeous, and Harry especially loved one he found near the end, of him and Draco dancing. His fingers stroked it gently, before asking, “Can I get a copy of this?”

Looking up at them, he saw their knowing faces. He remembered that he and Draco had forgotten to tell them about their relationship.

“Do you have something you’d like to share with us, Harry?” Oliver asked, almost laughing.

“Err, yeah… um… did we forget to mention that Draco and I are now dating?” Harry shared nervously.

“Finally!” Percy huffed, throwing his hands up. Oliver whacked him in the chest.

“That’s amazing Harry, we’re so happy for you both,” Oliver replied instead.

“Thanks, yeah… it’s taken me a long time to get here but…” Harry looked over at Draco, laughing with Seamus and Dean. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

“I feel like a proud parent,” Percy said, over-emotional. Oliver snorted, but his eyes were wet too.

They went back to looking at the other wedding photos, and Harry felt himself wanting to ask yet another tricky question.

“Percy… can I put my foot in my mouth again?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“It would be difficult anatomically, but sure,” Percy replied, not looking up from the photos.

“What my husband is _trying_ to say,” Oliver said, lightly nudging him, “Is that it’s fine, Harry, go ahead.”

“Thank you, Oliver. So, um… Percy… about the wedding… did it… bother you? That your family wasn’t there,” Harry struggled to say, hating himself for every word. He didn’t want to sour the mood they had around their wedding. Percy paused, then looked up.

“I’m not going to lie Harry, it… did make me a little sad. But, at the same time, I don’t regret it. I wanted the day to be about me and Oliver, and our love for each other. I wanted it to be a space filled with celebration, love, and laughter… not drama, tears, and resentment. Even if I had told them before the wedding, there wouldn’t have been time to work it through with them before the day. No, I’m glad it was just us, and our closest friends and family, together in celebration. The night was perfect, and I have no regrets,” Percy said, finishing by looking over at Oliver with love in his eyes and giving him a kiss.

“People make you think or feel like you have to be out to every possible person in your life. Otherwise, you’re not going to be truly content, or have a full-life, or be completely comfortable with your sexuality. That’s a load of bollocks, where I’m concerned. Look at me. I’m not out to my family, but my life is full and content. I’m perfectly comfortable with the fact that I am a gay man, married to another gay man. I have friends and a home and a job. Sometimes, your life is made richer by _not_ being out to certain people, rather than the reverse. And that may change, in the future… I may decide to come out to them, or I might not. But it’s such a dangerous thought that society spreads, to come out to everybody. Sometimes it doesn’t make your life better to come out to certain people. In some cases, it might even make it worse, or make you unsafe. There’s no rule saying you have to come out to anyone, if you don’t want to,” Percy explained fervently.

“Thank you, Percy,” Harry spoke seriously. “That’s actually really helpful to know.”

***

Next came telling Ron and Hermione. Harry followed up on his promise to call Hermione and set up a date for them to visit him. He planned to sit down with them then and break the news.

“Stop it,” Draco giggled, as Harry continued to kiss up his neck. “They’re going to be here any minute.”

“So? You’re my boyfriend, I want to show you off,” Harry breathily replied, pecking him on the cheek before continuing to ravish him.

“You’re going to give Granger a heart attack,” Draco reasoned, before breaking out into a moan. “And yourself a hard-on,” Draco teased.

Just at that moment, the buzzer rang.

Fear overtook Harry, and Draco straightened himself up and took Harry by the shoulders. Looking him in the eye, he told him seriously, “You’ve got this. You’re okay. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, and you can change your mind at any time. They love you. I love you. And I’ll be sitting at my apartment waiting for you, good or bad.”

When Harry finally nodded at him, Draco nodded back, before releasing him. Leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek, he whispered _good luck, I love you_ , before apparating away from the room.

Harry buzzed Ron and Hermione up, and they chatted for a good long while about everything. Harry caught up on what Ron and Hermione had been up to in London, with their jobs and their relationship. He found out they were trying for a baby, which made him at first shocked, then overjoyed for them. Harry told them about his job at the bookshop, and they told him how proud they were of him for getting out there, and how happy they were he’d found something he clearly loved doing so much.

As conversation came to a natural lull, Harry felt apprehension rise in his gut. This was it. This was the moment.

“Guys, there was something else I wanted to tell you. About me. And I’m not really sure how to say it, so I’m just going to put it out there. I’m—I’m gay,” Harry forced out tensely, gripping his hands into fists on his thighs.

They sat together in silence, then Ron was the first to speak.

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it,” he said, deadpan.

Harry and Hermione’s heads whipped in his direction, mouths dropping open.

“What? I may not be the most perceptive bloke, but anybody with eyes could see you had a thing for him. You were proper obsessed at Hogwarts, mate. I was honestly a bit surprised when you started dating my sister,” Ron replied easily.

“Wow… I can honestly say I was not expecting that,” Harry said. “So you don’t… mind?”

“What, that you like blokes? I don’t care who you shag, so long as it means I might get to spend time with you again. Now that we know, hopefully I can get my mate back,” Ron responded, slightly pointed. Harry winced guiltily at that.

“Wow Ron, that’s very… forward-thinking of you,” Hermione said, pleasantly surprised.

“Does everybody think I’m a homophobe or something? Merlin, I hope that isn’t why you didn’t tell me until now, Harry. I swear, I don’t give a shit. You know, with so many brothers, I’ve always wondered if one of them might be gay… Charlie, or maybe even Perce… I’d hope if they were they’d know they could talk to me about it,” Ron said contemplatively. Harry mustered up everything in him to train his face to remain blank. Even though internally, he was dying.

“Hermione? You haven’t said anything,” Harry realized, nervous again.

“Oh Harry, I don’t mind that you’re gay. I do wish that it wasn’t with Malfoy, but… if that’s what you want, if it’ll make you happy… then I am fully onboard,” Hermione spoke up.

“It is. Draco, I mean. And what makes me happy,” Harry said, gaining confidence.

“Okay, I will admit Harry... you’re going to have to re-introduce me to Malfoy slowly. Sorry, just the image of that slimy little git’s face—” Ron apologized.

Hermione reached out to smack him. “Ron! We can’t say that stuff anymore,” Hermione chastised him, jerking her head in Harry’s direction. Harry just laughed.

“I’m just so glad you both are okay with this,” Harry said, feeling giddy with relief.

“I am a little hurt you didn’t tell us before now…” Hermione started.

“I didn’t know myself until now. Well, maybe a little while now. But… Hermione, and I mean this in the best way, it’s not about you. It’s about me, and my sexuality, and how I feel about it. It’s about when and how I feel comfortable coming out to people. Which reminds me, please don’t mention this to anyone. If I want someone to know, I’ll let you know,” Harry replied seriously.

“Okay, Harry… I think I understand. It’s not about me, or us. This is your journey, and you have to go it alone and at your own pace. Just know we’re here too, right? To support you,” Hermione implored.

“I do know that Hermione, I do.”

“Can I just ask one question though?” Hermione asked, voice soft and uncertain. Harry nodded in response, bracing himself for whatever it might be.

“How did… I mean….” Hermione struggled to begin. She paused, seemingly stuck on how to phrase what was eating away at her. She shored herself up, and squaring her shoulders, tried again.

“We’ve been through war together. Just the three of us. And I guess I just… I want to know _why_ , why it is that you left us? Why is it them?” Hermione’s eyes radiated pain as they began to fill with tears. Harry’s own heart clenched, especially noticing Ron’s eyes blinking away wetness of their own.

“Hermione… I love you, and Ron. I always will, and that _has never_ and _will never_ change. You’re right, we’ve been through war together in a way that no other witch or wizard could even begin to understand. We’ve been close for what feels like our entire lives, even though it’s really only been since we were eleven. We’ve been through so much, so much that people shouldn’t experience in five lifetimes. So this… distance between us, it doesn’t make sense,” Harry said, sorting through his thoughts as he went.

“But I was talking about this with my Mind Healer in our last session and… emotions don’t always have to make sense. They aren’t rational. And the thing is…” Harry found himself getting choked up. He struggled to continue through his gathering tears, willing himself to hold them back.

“The thing is, being with you, in London, while you worked in the Ministry… it felt like the war every day to me. I couldn’t, like, _separate_ my thoughts from now and then. It was too _hard to be around you_ ,” Harry let the tears begin to flow as he choked out this painful confession. “Because you were so tied up in the war for me, and so was London, and the Ministry, and… it made me so ashamed, and alone, that you weren’t struggling like I was.”

Hermione opened her mouth at this, but Harry immediately held up his hand and jumped back in to correct himself. “I know that you were struggling too, and it was hard for you both. I know you both also have nightmares, and see a Mind Healer. But… you were managing to get out of bed in the morning, and you had _jobs_ and you could go outside without having panic attacks or flashbacks. You had nightmares but _you didn’t have PTSD_. Or maybe you both do, a little bit, but mine was slowly _drowning me_ and you weren’t even sinking. And it’s not fair that I felt that way, and it doesn’t even make _sense_ but… it made me feel farther away from you than ever. So by being near you I was living the war, but with one difference: _we weren’t in it together anymore_. In the war we were one in the same _._ We lived the same experiences. But suddenly we weren’t, and it made me feel so… distant, and jealous, and _angry_ that you weren’t hurting like I was. And I couldn’t live with the fact that I felt that way, so I had to go.”

“Harry… it’s not your fault. You don’t need to feel ashamed. Not for having PTSD while we don’t,” Hermione slowly spoke each word, eyes wide and unseeing. She looked like she was in shock. “The muggle textbook I showed you? Do you remember? Of course you don’t, you boys never committed to studying your textbooks… It said that two people could go through the exact same trauma and one get PTSD and the other not, because biology also plays a role. It’s the combination of environment _and_ biology, basically genetics, that make your brain wired to develop PTSD when triggered by intense stress, while another may not have that wiring. It’s called the diathesis stress model…”

Harry and Ron looked at her blankly, as she expounded distantly before her voice trailed off into nothing. Harry made a mental note to ask her for that muggle textbook back again later. When it became clear Hermione wasn’t going to continue, nor snap out of her stupor, Ron jumped in.

“Ahem, so, anyway… besides mate, we didn’t _die_. You did. Hate to break it to you Harry, but you went through a lot more traumatic stuff without us too. All on your own,” Ron said in his characteristically casual tone. Harry shook his head, and Ron’s face changed to firm.

“No, Harry. I’m not letting you fight me on this. We didn’t see Cedric die, _you did_. We didn’t duel Voldemort one-on-one, not just once but multiple times, _you did_. We didn’t choose to die to save the wizarding world, and then come back only to have to fake dead before springing a surprise attack and fighting _AGAIN_. _You. Did._ So don’t give me any of this martyr bullshit about how you didn’t have it worse than any of us, or that what happened to you wasn’t all that bad. Because you did, and it was. Merlin, Harry. I just wish you could see yourself from our side. It’s so fucking frustrating watching you continue to beat yourself up over this _shit_ when you don’t need to. You deserve to be happy, mate. Even if nobody else in the entire fucking universe ever gets to be happy again, _you deserve it, more than anyone_. Just let yourself, mate.” Harry flinched at the mention of Cedric’s death and the other events Ron listed as evidence, then had to blink back tears again as Ron emphatically told him he deserved happiness.

Hermione snapped herself out of her stupor, finally.

“Ron’s right, Harry.” Hermione agreed emphatically, nodding frantically.

Then, “But there’s still my other question… why them? Was it just that they didn’t remind you of the war, didn’t work for the Ministry, and weren’t in London?” Hermione ticked off Harry’s earlier reasons on her fingers, with the slightest bit of an edge to her tone.

“First of all, Hermione, I just want to say for the record there is no _us versus them_ happening here. They don’t replace you. They’re in _addition_ to you. _I_ couldn’t be around you, but they could be around me. As for why… yes, it is those things you listed, but it’s more than that. Nobody in the world or perhaps in _all of time_ will understand what we went through other than us three. We have that unbreakable bond. But, and it’s not entirely the same but—they know what it’s like to be gay. To struggle with figuring out your sexuality, coming out, dating someone of the same gender for the first time… they know those things in a way that you just, _can’t_. No matter how much you research, which I know you’d be willing to do for me, you just can’t _feel it_ or _understand it_ the way they’re able to. You can sympathize, but you can’t empathize. And then, there’s also…” Harry once more struggled to shuffle through his thoughts. Ron was moving his mouth in the shape of the words _sympathize_ and _empathize_ , perhaps trying to figure out what Harry meant the difference was.

“Again, I’m not sure if this’ll make sense to you but… they were strangers. Well, I knew them, so I didn’t fly into a panic being around them, _much_ , but they weren’t close to me like you were. They didn’t really _know_ me. It felt like a fresh start, the one I’d been looking for post-war. In Brighton, it felt like a safe haven where I could avoid the responsibility of the celebrity Savior status. I can just be… Harry. And they treated me that way. So that’s why we became close,” Harry summarized.

“And because they weren’t close to me like you two are, and didn’t really know me, it made me feel more comfortable to change, adjust, and figure out who I am as a person, away from the war. I stayed away even longer because as I changed, I didn’t want you to see the change in me and hate it. And I know, I know, that’s not fair. I know who you two are, and that you’d support me. But I guess what I’m trying to say is… it’s nothing about you two. It’s not some judgment on you as my closest friends. It was about my own fears and insecurities about exploring a new identity around people who knew _war-time-Harry_. I didn’t want to disappoint anybody, and in Brighton, nobody cared,” Harry concluded.

“Okay. Alright. Thank you, for answering that. It’s going to take me a little bit of time to process all of that and my emotions about it,” Hermione haltingly replied, still looking slightly dazed.

“No problem, Hermione… I really do love you, you know. And trust you,” Harry reassured her softly, still concerned.

“We know that Harry. Don’t worry. We know. And we love you too,” Ron answered for her. For them both.

Hearing those words, Harry mind flashed back to his last Mind Healer session, where he’d discussed coming out to his friends.

_“You know how you said once, that if I disagreed with anything you said, I should think critically about it and then, like, fight you on it?” Harry said, trying to remember her words._

_As she often did, his Mind Healer smiled wryly back at him. He was glad he had found someone with a temperament so similar to his own. Her vibe felt familiar to him and definitely contributed to the comfort he had in opening up to her._

_“Something like that, yes,” she agreed, with some amusement at his choice of wording._

_“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and—I disagree with you and Malf-I mean Draco’s statement about my friends. About them not being that good since I came to Brighton. Because I’ve realized that… it’s not really about them being good friends or bad friends at all. It’s about_ me _, and why I set that boundary to begin with,” Harry confidently stated._

_“That’s a really interesting perspective Harry, can you tell me more about that?” his Mind Healer replied, intrigued._

_“I wasn’t wrong when I said that they were respecting my boundaries—because I had built up this wall, between us. Even if they had done what you and Draco suggested they should’ve, and reached out, I would’ve reacted badly. It wouldn’t have helped me at all, or at least I don’t think so. Because it wasn’t about who they are as people, it was about me. I couldn’t bear to have them close, after the war. And it’s taken me until now to really understand why, and to start taking down that wall between us, brick by brick. I love my friends, and they love me. Somewhere between the Battle of Hogwarts and now, I lost sight of that. I let distance grow between us, because of my PTSD, and my burgeoning identity crisis, and I think maybe even… to punish myself. Because if I didn’t deserve to have life, then I certainly didn’t deserve to have good things in it, like a family. And they were, I realize now, my family. And I’d like to rebuild that. It’s going to take some time, and it’s going to be hard, but I think it’s worth it. And more than that, I think I_ deserve _it. So no, it wasn’t about my friends, and whether they were good or bad. Not really. It was about me, denying myself happiness and a family, until a group of almost-strangers snuck past my defenses and showed me how to let it in.”_

***

“So, you told your friends and family, how do you feel?”

It was Wednesday again, so he was back with his Mind Healer. Despite starting work and everything else new going on in his life, he made sure to carve out time for his weekly therapy sessions.

“Good. I guess—ish. _No_ , good,” Harry stumbled to reply.

“I’m sensing some indecision there Harry,” his Mind Healer reacted. “Are you having second thoughts about coming out?”

“Honestly… I’m not sure. They all went well, but I feel so… _awkward_. Sometimes I’m so happy that they know and support me, but other times… I feel like I could die from mortification,” Harry tried to explain, thoughtful.

“Hmm… that’s interesting. Why do you think it sometimes feels ‘mortifying’?” his Mind Healer reflected, using his language.

“Well… I’ve been thinking about that, because I knew you’d ask me that question,” Harry replied, flashing her a small smile. “And all I can think of is that… for such a long time, this was a topic I didn’t touch. It was so locked away in my mind I never even _considered_ the possibility… I distracted myself so thoroughly with the war; what was going on… and I could rationalize it because that stuff _was_ important—for me, and the wizarding world. So because that thought, and that topic—”

“Being gay?” his Mind Healer interrupted, politely urging him to use the word.

“Yes, being… gay. Because it was so taboo to me… it still feels sometimes like that dirty little secret. It feels embarrassing to share that about me. But then I think about Draco, and our relationship, and… I don’t feel embarrassed anymore. All those feelings fade away because… being with him is so, normal. Natural. And so, _so_ good. And if being gay means I get to have something so good, so _incredible_ , as my relationship with him, well… being gay doesn’t feel mortifying at all. What was that word Draco used way back when we first met?” Harry paused, scrunching up his nose as he tried to remember. “Oh yeah. It feels like a miracle.”

“That’s wonderful, Harry. I’m glad you’ve been taking the time to think about your feelings critically and respond to them. It’s another sign of how far you’ve come in therapy,” she congratulated.

“Thank you,” Harry said bashfully. “No really, _thank you_. You’ve helped me so much… I can’t even begin to think about what life would’ve been like if I hadn’t taken Hermione’s suggestion,” Harry said ardently.

“I’m very happy to hear you feel that way, Harry. You’ve definitely made many positive strides since we’ve started together. I’ve seen so many positive changes in you that are so encouraging. But I want to refocus again on the topic of you coming out,” she replied, leaning forward in her chair. Harry felt antsy in his seat, not sure what was coming next.

“I think this is one of those times where you’re going to have to be patient with yourself, and forgiving. You’re still figuring this stuff out—your identity, sexuality, relationship… it’s going to take time. It’s all going to take time. There’s going to be days where you really struggle with how you feel about being gay, like you mentioned before. That stuff, that harmful and toxic stuff that’s so tightly wound around our everyday lives, doesn’t suddenly disappear because you fell in love. Unfortunately. I wish it did, it would make everything so much easier. But no—you’re going to struggle with being gay, and being in a relationship with a man, and that’s _okay_. That’s something I want you to remember as you move forward in your relationship with Draco,” she advised him.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. And that’s something Draco’s been telling me too, which has been nice. That he’s okay with the fact that sometimes I’ll not feel great about being gay. He’s told me that he understands that this is all new to me, and he’s not expecting me to be Mr. Out and Proud overnight— or ever, if need be. He just… he just _loves me_ , and wants to be with me, if you can believe that,” Harry said, in awe.

“I can believe that, Harry. And I hope as we continue these sessions, one day you’ll believe it too,” she replied softly. “I’m glad you have a partner who understands that. That’s a really healthy thing to have in your life right now.”

“There is…something else,” Harry hesitantly voiced. Maybe Harry really had changed. If this had been the past, his Mind Healer would’ve had to poke and pry to get this next confession out of him.

“Go on,” she encouraged, nodding along.

“You mentioned… about telling my family. That I was gay,” he slowly began.

“Yes, meaning of course Percy, Oliver, Seamus, and Dean. And your friends Ron and Hermione,” she agreed.

Harry sat in silence with her, before nodding his head and looking imploringly at her, as if begging her to say what he couldn’t bring himself to.

“But what’s bothering you right now, is how your original family would react, if they knew you were gay,” she answered knowingly. “That family being of course your mother, father, and Sirius? Maybe Lupin as well?”

Harry gave a curt nod. He felt sick.

“What do you think they might have felt, if you told them?” she asked gently.

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem! I don’t have any idea how any of them felt about gay people, or same sex relationships! I’ve never gotten a clear picture of who my father was… part of the Order, sure; helped out a minority in Lupin, absolutely. But to be completely honest, what I’ve also seen about my father was that he was kind of a dick. He bullied people and was an all-around jackass a lot of the time. That’s why it took my mum so long to agree to date him. As he got older he must’ve wised up and settled down, otherwise I don’t think my mum would’ve gotten with him. But I’m just not sure. I wish there were still some of his old school friends around to ask, but… they’re all dead now, too. Even Snape, and he was hardly a friend and one biased motherfucker,” Harry exclaimed, exacerbated.

“You can’t know, Harry. There’s a lot about your parents you can never know. And I think that’s something you’re going to continue to wrestle with for the rest of your life,” she tried to explain rationally.

“Oh, wow, that’s _real_ comforting, thank you,” Harry snarked. “I’m glad to know the rest of my life is going to be so enjoyable: when I’m not freaking the fuck out over being in love with another man, I’m going to be tortured by thoughts of what I’ll never have with my parents!” Harry cackled bitterly, white-hot rage crackling off his body.

“I think it’s best we perhaps call this session to an end for today. We’ve touched on a lot of really sensitive topics, and I think we should take a breather until next week,” his Mind Healer tried to assuage him.

“Fine! I think you’re right. I’m out of here,” Harry angrily declared. He jumped up from his chair and was out the door in an instant.

***

Harry didn’t go home, after his disastrous session with the Mind Healer. He couldn’t. He felt so restless and unsure. His skin crawled and voices whispered so many unanswered questions in his ears. The most important ones that he could never bring himself to say: _Would they be proud of me? Or would they be disgusted?_

Harry couldn’t be sure what type of people his parents were. He had a better idea for Lupin and Sirius, because he had met them and they had spent time together, as short of a time as it was. He wasn’t sure what type of relationship he might’ve had with them, if they were alive. Would he be like Percy, and have cut all ties? Would they be impossibly close, like Draco and Narcissa? Or would there be a polite distance, like Hermione and her parents since the end of the war?

No matter their relationship, and even if Harry would’ve hated who his parents were… he wanted them to be proud of him. No, he _needed_ them to be. But how could he ever know?

His desire to be close to them brought him to Godric’s Hollow. He hadn’t been there since the war. There was a ghostly and mournful quality to the place. It made his heart pang endlessly, as ever step seemed to echo _what if, what if, what if?_ If he had gotten the chance to grow up here, what would his life had been like? Would he have gone to this church, or to that playground? Would he know that couple walking down the street? Would that sweets shop have been his favorite? It made his eyes sting and his body and mind ache to be here. But he wanted to be close to _them_ , his parents. And this was the place he felt their presence, as painful as it might be.

He visited their graves again first. He lay new flowers down, and as he kneeled before their headstones, the words engraved in front of him almost made him laugh through his tears at the irony. _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_. He wiped his tears as he remembered meeting his parents in the woods, before dying. It was that death that destroyed his enemy. But he realized now it also destroyed a bit of himself too. The piece of Voldemort’s soul, his horcrux, was decimated. Harry sometimes wondered if maybe over the years it had wrapped itself like ivy around his heart, like the insidious weed grows around the trunk of a tree and slowly becomes part of it, twisting and sinking deep inside. It had become a part of him, as his body accommodated to this foreign body. There was a certain emptiness that came with having that evil removed. Harry wondered, just as he had standing in Dumbledore’s office in second year, if something could be equal parts evil and good. His soul felt blackened and glowing, simultaneously.

So many of Harry’s struggles centered around _death_ : those he had lost, his own, and his complicated feelings about the concept all together. While he had resolved on that hill with Draco to leave the power of the war behind, he knew that battle still waged on within him, even as he fought to kept it at bay.

Standing, he dusted off his knees before moving on. He headed in the direction of the ruins of his old home. As he crossed the premises and it appeared before him, he traced his fingers lightly over the encouraging messages scrawled across the sign. He moved towards the door, almost in a trance. His body was tense and seemed to push against each step, telling him he couldn’t do this. He forged on regardless. Entering the house left him gasping. He felt their ghosts everywhere. He felt panicked, remembering Bathilda Bagshot’s husk of a body, and Nagini’s fangs. He took deep breaths and counted through them. He didn’t want to have an episode, not here. He sunk to the floor and kept counting them. He moved through his exercises, until he felt centered and present in the moment. He slowly stood, then walked upstairs.

Entering his parents’ bedroom, it looked exactly as they must have left it. The sign outside was accurate, they had left the house perfectly preserved even in its ruin. Harry questioned whether the house was charmed so only a chosen few could enter and disturb it. Walking slowly through the room, he felt just as haunted as he had in the graveyard, picturing that night. A lamp must’ve been knocked over, as it lay smashed on the ground. The bedsheets dragged on the ground, pulled away from the mattress. He took another shuddering breath.

He entered his own bedroom. The room that had changed it all. Where he had seen his mother’s body lay. He focused instead on what he hadn’t seen, in those memories. He ran his fingers through the fur of the teddy bears sat in a row across a cushioned bay window. He imagined his mother must’ve sat here with him sometimes, looking out into the vast world before them. _They could’ve had so much time…_ He saw the toy broom he’d once seen in a photograph, as he raced down the halls of the house. He smiled, holding it in his hands, before leaning it back against the wall. Looking around the room, he felt contentment. He had done it—he had entered his old house, and his old bedroom, and felt at peace. He felt the love his parents must’ve had for him radiating from the small touches throughout. The hanging mobile of the moon and stars that dangled over his cot, while _Harry_ was spelt out on the wall in wooden letters. He pictured his mother picking them out, and wondered if his father had used magic to hang them or if he’d done it himself, carefully, with muggle tools.

Harry didn’t know what he had been looking for, coming to the house. He knew he wanted to feel close to them, but wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find. Feeling emotionally resolved enough to return home, he decided it was time to walk back to the church before apparating back. As he exited the room on his pathway to the stairs, something caught his eye through the doorway into his parents’ bedroom. How had he not noticed it before? Up against one wall, there was a roll-top desk.

He moved towards it, anticipation rising in his chest. _It could be nothing_ , Harry reasoned with himself. _Don’t get your hopes up—it could be filled with nothing but empty envelopes and old parchment_. He paused in front of it, hand hovering at the lock. Would he need to find the key? He swallowed hard, before allowing his hand to make contact on the antique wood. He pushed upward… and with a swirl of magic, the desk top rolled open. Unlocked.

_It must’ve been my father’s desk_ , Harry thought ruefully, taking in the chaotic clutter within. His suspicion had not been incorrect—it was indeed filled with envelopes and old parchment. But it wasn’t blank, like he had feared. No, it was all documents and letters. Harry’s heart raced as he rifled through his father’s old papers. A lot of it was mindlessly dull, but still held meaning in his hands as the weight of what he had discovered settled over him. These were his _father’s papers_. His father had held these in his hands, even penned some of them himself. He absorbed each word no matter how dull, thirsting for knowledge about the man. It was over an hour later that Harry stumbled upon it. A letter, so unassuming, stuffed in one of the little cubbies of the desk, behind a mountain of other documents and newspaper clippings.

It was a letter from Sirius to his father. Dated during the first wizarding war.

_James, you old bastard,_

_Thanks a bunches for the ridiculously expensive watch you sent Moony for his birthday. You always have to show me up, don’t you? Always were an arrogant PRICK._

_Joking aside, Moony loves it. Not as much as my gift, of course, but I think Lily might have something to say about you doing some of the things I did to Moony that night…_

_HA! Take that as revenge, Prongs. You’ll never get that image out of your head._

_Things continue to be good with us, yadah yadah yadah. Send my love to the missus and my godson. Who knows, maybe you’ll be best man at my wedding someday soon._

_If you tell Moony I said that I’ll cut your balls off._

_Kisses,_

_Sirius xoxo_

Harry’s head spun. He re-read the letter. Then re-read it again. This letter made it sound like… but surely not? They had never said anything… Lupin dated then married Tonks, didn’t he? Or, she had wanted to date him… he didn’t understand. Sirius was joking. That’s who Sirius was. He’d make jokes like these. They were just old friends.

Harry dug through more of the papers, more urgently this time. He found a photograph, the corner wedged and folded underneath a crack in the join between the lip of the desk and the base. It was of all of them: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs, and Lily. But Lupin and Sirius weren’t looking at the camera at first, they were caught in a passionate liplock. Seeing the flash of the camera, they turned towards it, Lupin looking shy and embarrassed at the public display of affection. Sirius only smirked at the camera, radiating happiness.

They were together.

Sirius and Lupin. Were together. Dating. In love.

Harry stumbled back a step, the photo still gripped in his hand. His mind was reeling. This changed so much… so much of what he remembered and understood. But also so much for him.

As he stood frozen, a foot back from the desk, many thoughts struck him all at once. The first one being, _my father’s two closest friends were gay. And he knew that. And he loved them. My mother, too._

These tiny pieces of paper and ink had managed to answer questions that Harry had thought would never stop torturing him. In the course of a couple hours, his entire world had shifted.

The next thoughts hit him equally as hard. _Sirius and Lupin were in LOVE. With each other! They never told me, they never mentioned… but I imagine, Lupin didn’t know it wasn’t Sirius who betrayed them… for so many years, how angry and heartbroken he must have felt… it’s no wonder things were so difficult when they reunited. And what about Sirius not telling Lupin about the secret-keeper switch? He thought Lupin might’ve been the spy… how had that come to be? How did they go from Padfoot hinting to James about— marriage, to what they had become?_

About this topic, Harry was left with more questions than answers. More and more questions rushed into his mind, as bits and pieces of his interactions with both men came back to him.

_And then with Tonks and Lupin… he shrugged off her advances for so long. It was only after Sirius’ death that they… but then he found Lupin at Grimauld place, that one time… He had told Harry that he didn’t understand. And when Harry pressed him, the panic in his eyes…_

_“I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since.”_

_And Lupin had attacked him, after he’d said the words “you fancy stepping into Sirius’ shoes” and called him a coward…_

This was all too much. Images flashed before his eyes of Lupin staying with Sirius at Grimauld Place, the hug they’d shared when reunited, more like lovers than like brothers, the longing and heated stares…

It was time to leave Godric’s Hollow. Harry kept hold of the photo and grabbed back the letter from the desk, before racing from the house and apparating home his first chance.

***

But Harry didn’t apparate home. He apparated to Draco’s apartment.

“Harry?” Draco started from the couch, dropping the pen he’d been using to edit as he turned to face the man.

“Hi. Yes. Hello,” Harry stated. He felt weird, like he was somehow in a dream.

Draco stood before him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Love, why don’t you come and sit down next to me,” he softly suggested. Harry let Draco lead him over to the couches, sitting down gingerly beside him. His body remained tensed, and his eyes were still glazed over.

“Let me get you some tea,” Draco quietly decided, worried.

Harry reached out his hand to catch Draco’s arm, stopping him.

“No, wait. Just give me a moment,” Harry hoarsely begged. He needed Draco with him. He needed his gentle warmth and comforting presence. His unending patience and empathy.

Draco sat patiently, clearly still concerned but keeping his questions and comments at bay. Harry had never loved him more for that.

“I saw my Mind Healer today. Didn’t go so well,” Harry began, his voice still rough. He swallowed. Draco made a soft hum of acknowledgment, watching him closely.

“We talked about my parents,” Harry admitted, still unseeing. Draco stiffened at his words. He knew how significant what Harry was revealing to him was. “About how they might feel, about me being gay. About our relationship.”

Harry was once again glad in that moment for Draco. He was glad he didn’t have to waste more than a second agonizing over whether Draco would resent him for those words and misconstrue them as Harry’s feeling towards him. Draco understood this conversation was bigger than himself. And he also knew how Harry truly felt about him, versus how the wizarding world might view their partnership.

“I saw them, you know. Before I died,” Harry intoned. Draco made an empathetic noise.

“No, I really mean it. I saw them,” Harry stated more confidently. “You see… Dumbledore had left something for me. In his will. The very first snitch I ever caught. And the only clue it gave me was _I open at the close_. And I didn’t get it! I hated Dumbledore sometimes, throughout that year. Why couldn’t he just have told me? Why did he waste time forcing me to chase down all these clues and riddles, not even sure what his plans were? I didn’t know whether to trust him or to despair over wasting my time chasing dead-ends that never meant to connect.”

Draco was now in even more rapt attention. These were all details he had never heard before.

“I didn’t get it, I didn’t understand… not until the very end. And then it became so clear to me. I was standing in the forest, heading towards my death, and I put it to my mouth, because I had swallowed it originally, and said _I am about to die_. And it opened,” Harry revealed. Draco made a soft gasp at his words.

“It was inside the snitch. _The Resurrection Stone_. Dumbledore had left it for me. He must’ve known all along I had to die… he knew I was the final horcrux. He never told me,” Harry lamented. Draco was as still as a statue, mouth open in shock.

“So I took the Resurrection Stone, and I turned it. And my parents appeared, along with Sirius and Lupin. And I talked to them. Not for very long, but to ask them what I needed to in that moment, about death. They told me they were proud of me,” Harry explained, turning towards Draco to meet his eyes. “They said that they were proud of me and that they’d come with me, to the very end.”

Harry took a moment to blink back the tears burning at the backs of his eyes, but he knew it was a lost cause. Sure enough, a few tears escaped and made their slow and winding descent down his cheeks.

“I can’t tell you how good it felt, after all this time, to see my parents. To really _see them_ , and talk to them. And I got to hear them say that they were _proud of me_. It was everything I had ever dreamed of. And then I went to meet Voldemort and my death, with them beside me,” Harry finished.

“And what did you do with the Resurrection Stone?” Draco inquired breathlessly.

“I dropped it.”

“You what?!” Draco exclaimed.

“I dropped it. In the forest, somewhere,” Harry said simply.

“You— had— one of the most— powerful and significant magical artifacts of _ALL TIME_ and you just— dropped it?” Draco asked, strangled.

Harry replied defensively, “It’s not like I lost it or anything, I thought I was going to my death and I didn’t want Voldemort to have it.”

“I mean… fair enough,” Draco agreed easily. He saw his point.

Harry returned to his story. “So anyway… after getting that moment with my parents, I worry now… would they still be proud of me, if they knew? How would they feel about it? All I want to do is hunt down the Resurrection Stone and go ask them.”

“As shocked as I am that you had one of the infamous Deathly Hallows in your hands and you don’t know where you put it… I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Harry,” Draco replied seriously.

“No, I agree. The Stone is better left hidden where even I don’t know where to find it. Only you and I, and my Mind Healer, know the general vicinity. And none of us will go searching for it,” Harry said, before turning to look at Draco sharply.

Draco shook his head, face pale. “Certainly not me!”

“Good. And anyway, I don’t need the Resurrection Stone, not anymore. Because I know what my parents would have thought,” Harry declared.

“What do you mean, Harry?” Draco responded, confused.

“I mean… I went to Godric’s Hollow. To my old house, you know, _the_ house? And I found some of my dad’s old papers. And in them I found this,” Harry explained, holding out the letter and photograph to Draco.

Draco took the documents gingerly, and Harry waited while he took them in. Draco’s eyes widened more and more as his eyes scanned the letter, and then the photo.

“Is this—?” Draco asked breathlessly.

“Yes, it is,” Harry stated.

“And does that mean—?” Draco continued.

“Yes, it does,” Harry replied. And then a huge smile spread over his face, before he could help it. He was laughing and crying, and Draco held his hands before joining him. The relief from Harry was palpable, as well as the wonderous feeling only acceptance can bring. His parents loved him, then and now. And they were proud of him too.

As they settled down again, Draco met Harry’s eyes before confidently declaring, “I’d like you to meet my mother.”

Deflecting from the rush of butterflies in his stomach, Harry deadpanned, “I’ve already met your mother.”

Draco whacked Harry in the arm, before chiming, “You know what I mean! I’d like you to meet her, as my boyfriend. As the love of my life. But only if you’re comfortable with that.”

Harry couldn’t help but glow and beam even wider than he already was at the words _boyfriend_ and _love of my life_. He allowed himself time to think the proposal over and access his feelings and comfort level about it.

“I’d love to, Draco.”

***

It was a while before Harry remembered Ron’s words about Percy. He was at a family dinner at Seamus and Dean’s flat, when he got an owl tapping at the window for him. He was always amazed how owls somehow found their intended recipients even when they weren’t quite where the sender expected them to be. The letter was from Ron, asking to meet up next Sunday to watch a quidditch match together. Reading the letter and glancing up to see Percy’s inquisitive stare over his wine glass, Harry realized he had never shared with Percy what his brother had said to him when he came out.

Walking towards the man, Harry answered the unspoken question in his eyes. “It was Ron.” Harry didn’t know if he imagined it or not, but he felt like Percy’s eyes saddened slightly at the mention of his brother’s name.

“I never told you something… about when I came out to him,” Harry quietly confided.

Percy’s eyes went wide. “Yes?”

“I told him, and I expected him to maybe make some kind of dumb comment or be confused and angry, but no. He was actually the first to say he didn’t care. And do you know why? Because he said that with all his brothers, statistically one of them was probably gay, and he always wondered whether it was Charlie, or _you_. And that he hoped that if it were true, they felt like they could talk to him about it, and that he’d get to be a part of their life. He hoped that knowing this thing about me might mean I’d get closer to him now, and spend time with him again. Because I didn’t have to hold back,” Harry told him, meaningfully.

Percy looked very emotional at Harry’s words. But clearing his throat, he said, “As I’ve told you many times, I’m not in the closet with Ron because I’m scared or ashamed, Harry. It’s my choice, that I made for myself. I don’t owe it to him to tell him.”

“I know,” Harry agreed easily. “But I just thought you’d like to know, that one of your brothers, a member of your biological family, has always thought that if you were gay they’d love you just as much as they always had. And that they’d be happiest of all because it would mean you’d share your life with them again. That the two of you would grow closer and spend time together again.”

Percy didn’t respond this time, just wiped away a single tear.

“You don’t owe it to Ron to tell him shit. It’s your life, and your happiness and safety. But, as I remember you also saying, it’s okay to change your mind. If you decide, one day, you would like at least one member of your family to know… nobody would judge you for it. It doesn’t discount everything you’ve said until now. That’s all still true. That’s all I’m saying,” Harry finished, before casually walking off to find Draco’s side, giving him a loving kiss before joining into his conversation with Dean.

Percy remained standing where Harry had left him. He didn’t move for a long time.

***

A few weeks later, Percy told the gang the news. “I’ve decided… I’m going to tell Ron. About Oliver and me. I still don’t feel comfortable telling the rest of the family, and I don’t intend to anytime in the near future, maybe ever. But Harry made a good point to me, the other week… that it’s okay for me to change my mind on who I feel comfortable sharing about my life with. And I do miss my family, even while I do want to keep a closet wall there. If Ron has made it clear to Harry that _A_ , he doesn’t mind if I’m gay and _B_ , he wants to spend more time with me, then… I’m willing to take a chance on him,” Percy laid out confidently.

Everyone voiced their support.

“Now here’s where I need to ask for you guys’ help,” Percy admitted sheepishly. “I was thinking… Harry might bring him and Hermione to a family dinner night. But that would require all of your consent, of course.”

He looked around the group at their raised eyebrows, rushing to add, “And I don’t want anyone to feel pressured to say yes! This is just one idea I had, of several. If any single one of you is uncomfortable, please say so. Even if you’re the only one. I sincerely do not mind.”

“Well… I’m not sure about the rest of you but I’m fine with it,” Dean hesitantly replied.

“Same here!” Seamus chimed in.

“Well obviously I’m okay with it, because I’m already out to them,” Harry said.

“If it’s _truly_ what _you_ want to do, love, then I am behind you one hundred percent of the way,” Oliver responded, giving him a short kiss. Seamus gave an exaggerated gagging mime in the background.

All eyes then turned to Draco, who was biting his lip. Harry found his hand underneath the table and squeezed it briefly.

“I have… reservations,” Draco confessed.

“Okay then, that’s fine. We won’t do it. I have another idea in the works…” Percy immediately decided, dusting his hands off. Percy was a man of his word. Harry was struck again by how amazing these people he called family were, by always respecting consent and closets without judgment or question.

“No! No, Percy, I’m fine with us having them for family dinner but… I just have one condition,” Draco cut in.

“Okay, Draco, anything. What is it?” Percy easily offered.

“Well… no offense to anyone but I’d really like to clarify that this would be a one-time thing. I love our family dinners, and while it could be nice to have extra guests now and again… I truly do see it as a family dinner night, you know? I like having that private space for all of us to gather together and eat as a family. I don’t feel comfortable expanding that group permanently to Weasley and Granger. Sorry,” Draco admitted, gnawing on his lip further. He’d drawn blood.

“I completely agree, Draco, don’t worry about it,” Dean gushed, hand reaching over to place over Draco’s reassuringly.

“Seconded, Draco, my man,” Seamus agreed cheerfully.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Percy answered.

Draco turned his face to Harry, searchingly. Harry’s eyes softened, and he moved the hand not holding Draco’s under the table to cup his face instead. “I don’t have a problem with that at all. I agree too. This is Brighton, our safe haven, with our family. It’ll be good to see them, but I’m not ready for that space to change. I don’t think I ever want it to,” Harry spoke quietly, gazing into Draco’s eyes. Draco leaned forward and met Harry in a loving kiss. It was the first time they had kissed publicly, and Harry discovered that he didn’t mind. Amongst friends in a gay bar, that is.

Pulling back, he nodded in answer to Draco’s silent _was that okay?_ “I love you,” he replied out loud.

“I love you too, love,” was Draco’s intimate response. Seamus resumed his overly-dramatic gagging in the background.

***

Ron and Hermione came to family dinner night at Percy and Oliver’s. They met up with Harry and Draco first, at Harry’s flat. The re-introduction between Draco, Ron, and Hermione was awkward to say the least. Conversation was stilted, and Harry wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands half the time, because he wanted to show support and solidarity with Draco, but he also didn’t want to show so much PDA as to make himself or his friends uncomfortable. He didn’t know where that line was yet, and it seemed like a horrible place to find out. Harry was glad when it came time to leave for the townhouse, and everyone else seemed relieved too.

Ron didn’t know about Percy and Oliver yet. He only knew that Percy had invited him to have dinner with the gang at his place. None of them were sure how to go about this, and no way seemed good. Regardless of how they did it, they knew it’d be a shock to Ron, and that he might be upset. So instead, they did what made them most comfortable, and in the words of Seamus, _damn everyone else_.

Everyone in the gang felt extra protective of Percy since he made this decision. They wanted to shield him from any and all pain from the coming out, even though they knew realistically that was impossible. Instead, they just reassured him over and over that no matter how it went, they loved him and they’d always have each other. They did it so often that by the time the night rolled around, each time someone began to say it Percy nearly ripped their head off. That also might’ve had something to do with how insanely nervous he was.

They apparated to the townhouse. Percy was waiting for them in the entry.

“Ron…” Percy began. “It’s—it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Perce,” Ron said softly, before pulling his brother into a deep bear hug. Percy was frozen in shock, but quickly relaxed and returned the gesture.

“There’s some things… I have to tell you. Things you don’t know about me, and my life here. I just hope that… it serves to explain some things? And bring us closer together, not farther apart,” Percy began nervously, wringing his hands together.

“Perce, you’re scaring me… what is it?” Ron asked, a nervous edge to his own voice.

“I think maybe it’s best if I show you,” Percy fretted. “Oliver, love?”

Oliver appeared at his side in an instant, hand sliding around Percy’s waist. Ron’s eyes tracked the movement, eyes growing impossibly wider by the second.

“Ron, this is my husband, Oliver Wood.”

“WHAT?!” Ron burst out. “OLIVER WOOD?!”

“Err—yes. Ron. Oliver Wood. We’ve been together for a while now, and only recently got married,” Percy continued, trying not to let his anxiety get the better of him.

“Wow. Just, wow. Sorry, Perce. Just a lot to take in. You’re gay. And so is Oliver Wood. And you’re married,” Ron stated, overwhelmed.

“Not to mention this is their townhouse!” Seamus chimed in helpfully from the living room.

“Is that Seamus Finnigan? _The_ Seamus Finnigan from Hogwarts?” Ron called out jovially.

Seamus shoved his way through into the entry.

“Yep, it’s me, Ron-o! Good to see ya mate,” Seamus greeted him, giving him a firm and exaggerated handshake. “And Dean is here too.”

“Dean?! As in _Dean Thomas_?” Ron squawked.

“The one and only,” Dean swept in.

“And we may not be married, but Dean and I are madly in love too,” Seamus happily explained, pulling Dean into a loving kiss.

Ron sputtered for a couple minutes. “Is everyone I know gay?!”

Everyone in the gang turned to Ron to say simultaneously, “Pretty much.” Then the whole group, Ron included, burst into laughter. After that the ice was broken, and dinner proceeded on as normal.

There was one sweet moment though, where Ron pulled Percy over to the side of the room behind where Harry and Draco were seated, and Harry got to overhear bits and pieces of their conversation. Ron apologized to Percy for how he had treated him growing up, and told him how much he loved him as a brother. Percy hugged him tightly and thanked him for saying those things, and that he was sad to not have Ron in his life for all these years. Ron replied by saying he understood, and that they had the rest of their lives now to make up for it.

It all left Harry rather teary.

And as they sat down at the large dark wood table to eat, a passage came to Harry from one of the books he had stumbled across during one of the many slow days at the bookshop:

_I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark._

Sitting beside Draco, holding his hand, in the glow of this warm room, he felt his heartbeat. He felt the heartbeat of all the loving souls in this room. He found the words coming to him, unhindered: _The war is over._ And looking around the room at all their faces, the faces of Percy, Oliver, Dean, Seamus, Ron, Hermione, and Draco, it felt like an answered prayer. He thought to himself, _this is Life. I am living. And I am so happy to be alive._

 

_the end._

 

**Author's Note:**

> And there we go! If you made it this far, I applaud you. Editing this thing was a nightmare, it was a constant chorus of "why is this thing so fucking long??" and "how does so much happen in this fic??" I cried while writing this, so I hope at least one person out there enjoys reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. All the love.x
> 
> come say hi on my tumblr (rocketdocket)


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